Faal Aldin Du'ul (The Jagged Crown)
by Morninglight
Summary: NaNoWriMo. The widowed Jarl Elisif the Fair, so-called puppet of the Empire, and the regicide Ulfric Stormcloak, proponent of a free Skyrim, both covet it almost beyond honour, perhaps even sanity itself. But when the gods bring in a third contender by giving him the soul of a dragon and setting him on the road to destroy Alduin, only Akatosh can see the unfolding of Wyrd itself.
1. Sundered, Kingless, Bleeding

Note: NaNoWriMo version of _Junseahrol_ with a focus on the political aspect. The Great War finished two decades ago instead of three, so everyone's about ten years younger if they're over the age of thirty. Enjoy!

…

**Prologue: Sundered, Kingless, Bleeding**

Blue Palace, Solitude, 17th Mid Year 4E 201

As always, the Moot was more about the posturing of Ulfric Stormcloak, the indecisiveness of King Torygg and the inquisition of the new Thalmor Ambassador Elenwen than actually getting anything done. Balgruuf's arse was slowly turning numb from the hard wooden seat given to him as a Jarl and he could only imagine how Irileth and Proventus' feet must feel like. Before the High King sat eight of the nine Jarls of Skyrim: Igmund of Markarth, Dengeir of Falkreath, Skald of Dawnstar, Korir of Winterhold, Idgrod of Morthal, Laila of Riften, Elisif of Solitude and himself for Whiterun. Being related to Igmund through his mother, Idgrod through marriage and Torygg through his father, Balgruuf's allegiances should firmly lie with the Empire. And for the most part, they did. But Ulfric, with his deep voice and studied gestures, was persuasive.

"The Empire abandoned Skyrim, from whence it came, and abandoned the god who founded it – Talos Stormcrown, called Tiber Septim, the original Dragonborn!" Ulfric pointed out for the umpteenth time. "What allegiance do we owe them, Torygg?"

"I have sworn on my father's honour to maintain faith with them," Torygg responded wearily. "Why do you ask this every time the Moot meets, Ulfric? My answer will not change."

Balgruuf didn't bother hiding his sigh as he shifted on the seat to ease the aching in his buttocks. "For once, could we focus on _real_ problems? The pirates in the Sea of Ghosts are getting brave and bandits are breeding like rabbits in Whiterun. Trade is getting disrupted-"

"Internal security in Whiterun Hold is your problem, Balgruuf, not mine," Ulfric interrupted, resonant voice thick with contempt. Ever since their youth in High Hrothgar, the Stormcloak as a future Greybeard and the Jarl of Whiterun as a second son dispatched to learn the ways of meditation and discipline, they had been rivals. "And perhaps Nords are being driven to lawlessness by the depredations of the witch-elves of Alinor!"

"And perhaps you're reaching for straws as most of your compatriots are too sensible to listen to you," Elenwen noted silkily from the balcony surrounding the throne room. The Blue Palace was smaller than Dragonsreach but made of stone and enchanted with every protective and comfort spell known to the gods and man. Balgruuf could feel the weight of previous High Kings like an invisible yoke, a presence that was both burden and support.

Ulfric made a noise of contempt. "Milk-drinkers, the lot of them! Addicted to Imperial gold-"

"That gold feeds and protects our people!" Balgruuf shot back, trying to keep his voice calm, albeit hard. "I have heard that a murderer stalks the streets of Windhelm, slaying innocent women. Do not chide me over the state of my house until yours is in order, Stormcloak!"

The local Imperial governor, a wan-looking Colovian named Gracchus, flapped his hands like a maid shooing geese. "Is there need for such violence?" he asked plaintively. "Surely this can be spoken about civilly!"

Ulfric's eyes, green as the emeralds mined in the southern hills of Eastmarch, narrowed in contempt. "You Imperials always talk! Nords bled for you, _died_ for you, and in return you spat upon our god and sold Him to the Thalmor!"

"Talos was a false god and you should thank us for freeing your people from pointless superstitions." Elenwen, who appeared to take a perverse pleasure in inciting Ulfric, smiled coldly down at the raging Jarl of Windhelm. "Now we just want to live in peace, to rebuild what was lost."

_So you can invade again,_ Balgruuf thought sourly, knowing that one day it would be his sons Nelkir and Frothar facing the damned goldskins. Until Ulfric started agitating, the Empire had allowed the _private_ worship of Talos in Skyrim, for every Legate stationed in the northern kingdom had explicitly pointed out that the White-Gold Concordat forbade only the public worship and veneration of the Stormcrown.

He sighed again, wishing he was back home to oversee the summer harvest. In Whiterun Hold, two harvests a year could be sown, and the northern Holds relied on the bounty of his beloved plains. Nelkir, his eldest son (born from his Breton mistress Marie) was turning dark and moody with adolescence; maybe the boy should go to Winterhold and study, as Farengar constantly suggested. Frothar was almost ready for weapons training at eight, while twelve-year-old Dagny wanted a new dress as she hovered on the edge of becoming a woman. Balgruuf was so busy that he tried to show his children he loved them, though Irileth warned him he was spoiling them.

"For the love of Malacath, Ulfric, shut up!" bellowed Hrafn Half-Moon, the 'Jarl' of Half-Moon Hold. The ugly, tusk-toothed Nord wore dark green orichalcum armour forged by his second wife Kakhra, his first wife Loshal being a better herbwoman; the Half-Moons were heavily interbred with the Orcs and Hrafn had dropped hints about Dagny being a wife to one of his slightly more cultured Orc sons. While he relied on their orichalcum and ebony mines, enjoyed a prosperous trade relationship and even respected the Foe-Reaper, Balgruf wasn't quite sure if he was willing to mix his blood with the Norcs. Even if he tentatively supported the idea of Half-Moon being respected as an official Hold.

"Be silent, you mix-blood mongrel!" Ulfric bellowed at Hrafn. "You have done nothing for Skyrim!"

"I seem to recall serving under Jonna in the march from Bruma and the Battle of the Red Ring," the Foe-Reaper responded with deadly softness. "Me and Rikke, you and Galmar. What happened to you, Stormcloak, that you'd spit on your father's legacy."

"We – _you_ – fought for Cyrodiil, not Skyrim," Ulfric retorted. "And look what happened. The Empire sold us out anyways."

"We signed the White-Gold Concordat to _save_ us all!" Gracchus bleated. "What is it with you damned Nords and your damned honour?"

That was… the wrong thing to say. Balgruuf tensed as Ulfric took a deep breath, knowing well the man's ability to Shout, and Gracchus flinched back in fear. But instead the Jarl of Windhelm spat on the quailing Imperial in disgust and turned to Torygg, who sat frozen upon his throne.

"I, Ulfric Jarl of Windhelm, invoke the right of duel as has existed since the time of Ysgramor. I, Ulfric Jarl of Windhelm, find you an unfit steward of Skyrim. Will you accept my challenge or relinquish your throne in craven surrender?"

Something bitter flickered in Torygg's eyes as his gaze flashed to Elisif, who sat on his right hand. She clutched his sleeve with a soft white hand, but he gently pried her fingers from the fur-trimmed silk. "I must," he told her quietly. "I must."

"Wait, what is going on?" Gracchus bleated.

"Ulfric is going to duel Torygg. Whoever wins will be High King," Balgruuf told him, voice raw with mixed emotions.

"You can't do that! This isn't legal!" He looked at Ulfric. "This is treason!"

"I can, it is, and the Empire is unworthy of my loyalty," Ulfric retorted as huscarls went to fetch the Jarls' personal weapons.

"You would plunge us into war because of your own pride?" Balgruuf asked the man bitterly.

The Stormcloak met his eyes squarely. "You and I have our differences, Balgruuf the Greater, but you owe a mighty blood-debt to the Thalmor as well. Do you not recall their… bonfires… upon the shores of Lake Rumare on the eve of the Battle of the Red Ring?"

"I recall my father and brother being crucified and burned alive with witch-fire better than you," the Jarl of Whiterun retorted. "Torygg, son of Istlod, is my cousin through my grandfather's eldest sister. You ignite clan-feud if you go through with this, Ulfric!"

"Be wary, my Jarl," Irileth murmured in Dunmeris. "Look to the Ambassador; she looks way too happy for this to be happening."

Balgruuf glanced at his huscarl with a faint, grim chuckle. "But of course. If Ulfric wins, the Empire will bleed through Skyrim."

"I should have known you would stand against me," Ulfric countered. "Your huscarl is a Dunmer, your Steward an Imperial, your firstborn a Breton. You are no true son of Skyrim."

"You don't have to do this, Ulfric. If you do, a shadow blacker than night itself will fall over Skyrim," Idgrod finally said, having been silent until now. His late wife's paternal cousin was waxen and shaky in the aftermath of the vision she'd surely had.

"The shadow's already here," Ulfric responded as the Jarls rose in unison for their chairs to be taken away. Elisif looked ready to vomit and Torygg's face was white as linen; but the boy stood proud, eyes and hands steady.

Their weapons arrived: Ulfric's Foe-Frightener, an enchanted steel axe that hearkened to the time of Martin Septim, and a fine ebony blade for the inexperienced Torygg. "How many Nord children starved for that weapon?" the Stormcloak taunted the High King as the Jarls and other notables of the court formed into a loose circle around the two, defining the area of the duel.

Torygg raised his gaze to Ulfric. "You have your duel and likely your victory too," the High King responded. "I am no fighter, not compared to a man trained by the Legions. But I have nothing you never will."

"What is that?" Ulfric asked sceptically.

"I will never be broken or imprisoned. I will go to Sovngarde with my head held high. Can you say the same, Stormcloak?"

Balgruuf swallowed as Ulfric's face flickered at the hit. Everyone knew he'd suffered at the hands of the Thalmor and had been imprisoned for his actions in Markarth. In the background, Gracchus was bleating about how this was treasonous and futile while Elenwen smiled subtly.

Torygg stepped into the battle-circle, smiling sadly at the openly weeping Elisif. "I love you," he told her.

They were the last words he ever spoke. Even in later years, Balgruuf could never divide memory from rumour: one moment, Torygg stood holding his sword, the next Ulfric Shouted and the High King was a bloodied corpse upon the stone floor of the Blue Palace.

In the confusion that followed, the Stormcloak escaped and it fell to Balgruuf to command Falk Firebeard, the resident Steward, to restore order in the city. Irileth, hardened by centuries of battle, lent her particularly brutal expertise where necessary and Ulfric left the city with only himself and Galmar.

When it was over, Torygg's body wrapped in his robe and carried away to the Hall of the Dead with Elisif in weeping wake, the other Jarls had fled the city. Balgruuf buried his face in his hands within the privacy of his guest room and allowed himself a bitter laughing sob.

Civil war had come. What shadow could be blacker than that?

…

Castle Bruma, 20th Mid Year 4E 201

When motivated by treason, the Imperial courier system could ride faster than the wind.

Customarily spending the hot summers of Cyrodiil in the relative coolness of the Jerall Mountains, Emperor Titus Mede II was breaking his fast with his secret son (called Martin as had become de rigueur for Imperial bastards) and the concubine who bore him when the news of Torygg's slaughter was delivered. On receipt of the tragic notice, for he'd fostered by Torygg and Elisif in the Imperial Court, the Emperor's response was _not_ recorded in the Imperial Archives for reasons of both dignity and language: "Fucking Nords."

Then he coughed, looked apologetically at the green-eyed beauty who peeled his boiled eggs with practiced efficiency, and said, "Sorry Aurelia."

Quaestor Hadvar, a two-year Legionnaire and recently promoted to the courier corps, gave the woman a started glance. Bronze-skinned, black-haired and with aquiline Imperial features, she looked nothing like a Nord but for the gold-washed turquoise of her slanted eyes. Then she rose with measured grace, the top of her head level with Hadvar's gaze, and he understood.

"I'm Nord by courtesy," she told Titus, over whom she towered. "With respect, your Imperial Majesty, your apology should be directed to the Quaestor here."

"Indeed. I apologise, Quaestor," the Emperor said to Hadvar, sighing wearily. "I was…"

"Torygg and Elisif were great favourites of the Imperial Court when they were fostered here," Aurelia explained in a throaty voice. It seemed wrong to Hadvar that a Nord woman be dressed up in filmy sea-green silks, her right hand and forearm twined with the intricate scarlet tattooing of Cyrodiil's elite prostitutes. But it wasn't his place to judge the Emperor.

"The Emperor honoured me with his apology," Hadvar said instead. "And I thank you, Lady, for respecting my honour. You are a true Nord."

Aurelia's red-tinted lips twitched, a shadow of sorrow flickering in her eyes, as she inclined her head respectfully. "Thank you for your service, Quaestor. It will be remembered."

Hadvar knew a dismissal when he heard it. He saluted respectfully and exited the dining room of Castle Bruma, knowing that he would be questioned at length by the Elder Council once the Emperor convened them.

Once the Nord Legionnaire was gone and Martin Mede dispatched sulkily to his nurses, Titus buried his face in his hands and wept. He'd been genuinely fond of Torygg, son of his old friend Istlod, and Elisif, daughter of an Imperial merchant and his Nord wife. Alone but for the presence of his concubine, he set aside his dignitas for a moment and allowed himself to grieve for the death of a fine young man and the troubles that would come.

When it was done, he let the non-judgmental Aurelia to dab away all evidence of tears with a damp silk cloth and called for one of the resident Imperial Battlemages. "Call for Tullius immediately," he told the woman. "Trouble's erupted in Skyrim that will require his expertise."

"Quelling the Nords with the Legion will be difficult," Aurelia noted once they were alone again. "Half of Skyrim will consider this a holy war and a good many of them have been trained by Legionnaires."

"Colovian discipline will overwhelm Nord enthusiasm any day of the week," Titus told her with an edge to his voice. While he was genuinely fond of Aurelia Too-Tall and the courtesan had a keen eye for people, she knew nothing of war and less of international diplomacy.

Her lips pursed subtly but she remained appropriately silent as she fell into an apologetic obeisance. Titus patted her bowed head comfortingly, enjoying the feel of the thick coiled tresses beneath his gnarled old hand. Most Colovian men would have seen the woman's great height, legacy of a Nord mother, but the Emperor had seen past that to the Akaviri eyes and paternal bloodline. And taking her as a consort had gained him the loyalty of the Aurelii, an ancient spy-clan who had once called themselves Blades.

Marcus Tullius, currently stationed with the Fifth Bruma Legion, was announced soon after the Emperor had finished his boiled eggs. Uninvited, but not unexpected, Irkand Aurelius accompanied him. Once a high-ranking Blade, Irkand had publicly rejected the god and desecrated an Amulet; while Titus made use of the man's skills at infiltration and assassination, he was uneasy about someone who could change allegiances – blaspheme a deity – so readily.

"Fucking Nords," Tullius observed, sitting down once given permission. Irkand remained standing, slanted gaze inscrutable in that round Redguard face of his. To those who knew nothing of the Aurelii, the fact that he and the woman currently buttering a roll for the Emperor were uncle and niece would be unbelievable. To those who knew that the Aurelii took advantage of the fact that Imperial society was patriarchal and patrilineal but racial descent ran through the mother, the Akaviri eyes gave it away. Thankfully, the former were many and the latter few.

"I want you to put this rebellion down with enough force to see Ulfric dead but not enough to shatter Skyrim," Titus commanded. "Like it or not, we'll need those howling barbarians to fend off the Thalmor in a generation or two."

"Currently Ulfric holds the majority in the Moot – their meeting of Kings, you could say – but Siddgeir is champing at the bit for some autonomy and he has rights to Falkreath near Hammerfell," Irkand observed before Tullius could speak. "Tribal loyalty will pin the border and stop Ulfric would joining forces with the Alik'r and Ra Gada."

"I'll leave that to your people then," Titus told the assassin.

"Best hope that damned dandy doesn't beggar his people," Tullius, born of old landholder stock in the West Weald, noted. Aurelia, trained to perfection, had poured the General some kaf. It was a pity the Aurelii weren't of viable noble rank, because they trained their daughters well and Divines knew he could have used a competent Empress.

Then again, Titus couldn't have used an Aurelii Empress to reward favoured vassals. The clan seemed grateful for his patronage and Aurelia had been raised to know her place as an Imperial woman, for all her Nord blood.

_If she'd been like her mother in character, I suspect the Thalmor would have dragged her away as a worshipper of Talos,_ he thought as he ate some of his buttered roll. _And thank the Divines she's nothing like her father!_

Aurelia Too-Tall was living proof that Nords could be raised in a civilised manner. She was the perfect Imperial lady, just like dear Elisif in Solitude (if she survived the coming troubles and was unbroken by grief), a helpmeet, not a warrior. Titus was fond of both girls and knew he'd have to find better husbands; Aurelia, with her grace and elegance, might suit Siddgeir and she had the good sense that the handsome young dandy lacked.

_Then again, I'm an old man and I have earned the odd luxury,_ he thought as he patted the woman's shoulder affectionately. She served him without revulsion and accepted his reprimands appropriately. She was the only one of his women to bear him a son. Perhaps he should give her an official rank in the Court.

But then he sighed. The Nords had to be put down first. Why couldn't they be sensible like nearly every other race out there? The Empire had only forbidden the public worship of Talos, after all!

_Why couldn't you have left this crisis until my son was a man?_ he asked of the Divines silently.

As always, the gods were silent, keeping their own counsel. So it was left to two old veterans and an assassin to protect Skyrim from itself.


	2. Sparrows in the Hall

Note: I'm on a roll with NaNoWriMo! Changing origins from Junseahrol to stagger arrivals in Skyrim and to set up a greater plot. Title names will come from a variety of sources, from real life and in-game lore. My interpretation of Imperial culture is inspired by combined Roman (Colovian) and Japanese/Chinese (Akaviri) influences. I will be using , so some of my Dragonish will be non-canon.

…

**Sparrows in the Hall**

Castle Bruma, 15th Sun's Height, 4E 201

_Sundered, kingless, bleeding…_

Aurelia Too-Tall, Imperial Companion, shoved the recurring words out of her mind as she laid out a tunic for a protesting Martin. Her son was energetic and bored, a bad combination when a rebel province lay just across the Jerall Mountains and Titus refused to send the boy to the relative safety of the Imperial City. The Thalmor would corrupt him, the Emperor protested, or the Elder Council would be threatened by his presence.

_You're seventy-five years old and think you'll survive to see Martin grow to manhood?_ Aurelia always thought the questions she daren't say aloud. A Companion was discreet, obedient and subtle; an Aurelii woman knew when to speak and act. Both obeyed the men in their lives for it was their place.

_Unless I impress Titus enough to be granted a small niche in the Imperial Catacombs, one day my bones will be placed in the Women's Crypt alongside with all the others,_ she thought grimly and selfishly. A true Imperial woman placed the needs of the family – the clan – above herself. Even Aurelia Northstar, Champion of Cyrodiil and Guildmaster of the Fighters' Guild, was buried there, returned to the clan in death.

_I am Aurelia Too-Tall, Companion to the Emperor – the first Aurelii woman to be so honoured since the days of the Septims. That is honour enough for me,_ she reminded herself bitterly as Martin finally donned the plain brown travelling tunic. Titus wouldn't send him to the Imperial City but he _would_ dispatch the boy to Chorrol to be fostered with the Count there. The Elder Council knew of her son's existence, and being the pragmatic Colovians that they mostly were, accepted his status as heir even as they concealed it from the Thalmor. But if the Thalmor didn't know who her son was, then she was a pureblood Nord shieldmaiden.

"Mama?" Martin's high voice was uncertain, breaking her from her brooding. For all her discontent with life as a Companion, she'd had a great deal of contact and therefore influence on her son. Now that he was eight and of age to foster, he would be sent away from her as all male noble children were from their mothers, to be raised by other women with other agendas. Some of them would even hate her and would wish to poison Martin's mind against 'that upstart mix-blood whore'.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I was thinking," she told him, kissing the top of his head.

"Everyone's unhappy these days. It's because of Skyrim, isn't it?"

_If Martin remains this intelligent, he will be an Emperor to be reckoned with,_ Aurelia thought proudly as she nodded. She may not tell her son everything, but she never lied to him. "The Nords are unhappy about Talos and they're… rebelling."

"Jarl Ulfric killed King Torygg. I remember King Torygg; he gave me a dagger." Martin sighed, turquoise eyes too wise for a lad of his age. "You're a Nord, aren't you?"

"I… Technically, yes." Her mother had been a Nord, even though it was her great-grandmother (according to Uncle Irkand) who'd been the last pureblood. Aurelia's blood, diluted by Imperial and Redguard ancestry, barely inured her to a brisk autumn breeze. Martin, who was also technically a Nord, had little beyond his sturdiness to speak of his ancestry.

"And so am I. Do you think the Nords would be happier if they knew that I was one?" Martin's question was so sincere, it nearly broke her heart.

"Some might be. But these Stormcloaks…" She sighed. "Neither of us would be true Nords in their eyes."

Martin nodded sadly. "General Tullius said he was going to send them to Oblivion. I know Ulfric's a bad man, but sending him to Oblivion's pretty horrible."

Aurelia smiled. "Nords who die in battle go to Sovngarde."

Her son's eyes lit up. "Tell me about Sovngarde!"

"Only if you pull on your leggings and boots by yourself."

Martin, galvanised by the prospect of a story, obeyed with alacrity and was soon sitting down on a cushion facing his kneeling mother. Despite the destruction of the Blades in the Great War, the Aurelii kept up the old Akaviri traditions within their household, traditions she shared with her son. It would fall to him to face the Thalmor, both as the son of an Emperor and the grandson of Blades, and Aurelia would do everything in her power to share her legacy – such as it was, the little she recalled – with him.

"Men are like sparrows in the hall: we come from the darkness into the light for a brief moment of time and then we go back into the darkness," she told Martin softly, looking around for any disapproving Imperial nurses. Titus… didn't like her acting Nord. He prided himself on her perfectly Imperial demeanour. "The only ways to escape that fate are to be remembered and found worthy of Sovngarde."

"How are we found worthy?" Martin asked, catching on her air of secrecy and acting furtive with a child's sense of drama.

"First, you must live a good life. You must be loyal to kith and kin, to be brave in the face of your foes and merciful to those who rely on you for protection. Men must speak of you for the right reasons. And if you die bravely, especially in battle, you will find yourself in a mist-filled valley."

"Ooooh…" Martin's green eyes were wide.

"Once you pass through the mist, you will meet a giant before a bridge made from the back and ribs of a whale. He is Tsun the Shield-Thane, huscarl of Shor – whom we call Lorkhan – and he is the one to test you. You must stand firm in a duel with him, and if you do, you will be permitted to enter the Hall of Valour. When that happens, you will drink and feast and battle for all days until the final doom is come."

"Only a Nord would consider a cheap tavern a fine afterlife." Titus' voice was hard and sharp, a blade that flensed through her storytelling trance and sent a cold chill down her spine. Never had he sounded so angry with her. "Aurelia, why are you filling his head with Nord nonsense?"

"One day he will rule them, and given Gracchus' rather shoddy diplomatic efforts, it would behove the future Emperor to understand his subjects - especially the Nords, who _are_ the First Men," she responded, turning from her son and falling into a deep obeisance.

"And you, a whore raised in Cyrodiil, have such an understanding of howling barbarians in the North?" Titus retorted scornfully.

At this point, a good Companion would be grovelling for forgiveness at questioning her lord and master. But Aurelia had spent the past month enduring veiled insults from the non-Nords of Bruma. She wasn't a Nord by Stormcloak standards, but she was sick of being treated like a freak or a tamed pet.

"I know what Sovngarde is, which is a hell of a lot more than Tullius does," she replied, keeping the fear from her voice.

Utter silence descended upon the nursery before Titus snapped for a nurse to collect Martin and take him out to the carriage for transport to Chorrol. "Not until I say goodbye to Mama," he insisted. "I asked her to tell me about Sovngarde."

"You'd only know the name because she told you in the first place," Titus told him. "But say your farewell to your mother. It will be a while before you see her."

Martin reached over to hug her; Aurelia returned the embrace, wondering if she'd ever see him again. Companions had been dismissed, even executed, for less than outright questioning the Emperor of all Tamriel.

"Goodbye," she told Martin just before the nurse came and took him away.

Titus sighed, looking very old. "I shouldn't have called you a whore in front of the boy. He doesn't need to know the truth of what you are. Not yet."

"I am a whore because you made me one," Aurelia reminded him mercilessly.

"If I hadn't looked past that ridiculous height of yours, you'd be another Aurelii slut with a reused cognomen," Titus pointed out flatly. "I know the past month's been hard for you with all the harpies about, but that's no excuse to be acting like a barbarian."

"For telling Martin about his heritage? The Colovian sense of superiority has really clashed with the Nords' honour," Aurelia retorted. "The Nords were the First Men and they haven't forgotten."

"Fucking Nords." It was Titus' favourite refrain these days despite Tullius regaining half the country in just under a month. "So you think you know more about the Nords than the Imperial Diplomatic Service?"

There was something about his question that was more than a reprimand. It was a challenge. And something wild, something desperate, in Aurelia countered with, "I could hardly know _less_ than Gracchus without being a simpleton."

Titus chuckled grimly. "Fine. Since you know the Nords so well, you can aid Tullius in Skyrim."

"I… What?" Aurelia raised her head, forgetting all protocol.

"Even on your worst day, you're a better diplomat than my General," Titus explained with a sharp smile. "As you pointed out to the boy, you're technically a Nord. Thankfully, you've had a Colovian upbringing, so you're more sensible than most of them. So you will use your feminine wiles to… deal with the crisis."

"I… see. Failure will obviously bring execution."

"If you fail, I would advise remaining in Skyrim with your kinsmen because the Elder Council will be looking for a scapegoat – and it won't be me," Titus agreed grimly.

"If I succeed?"

"Obviously I will raise your clan to noble rank-"

"Fuck my clan. What's in it for me?" Aurelia surprised herself with both her language and demand; judging by the brief flicker of emotion on Titus' face, she shocked him too.

"If you can pull it off, I will recognise you as Martin's Regent," the Emperor of Tamriel finally replied. "You love the boy and if you can do this, you'll be able to manage nearly anyone else."

Aurelia took a deep breath, feeling the edge of the earth crumbling beneath her feet. She was at a precipice where she must leap, but whether she fell or flew would depend on her own actions.

"Your will, my deeds," she finally said, using the traditional Akaviri vow of acceptance. For once, it was sincerely meant.

She would not fail, for both the Empire and her son depended upon her.

…

Jorrvaskr, 18th Sun Height 4E 201

"Men are as sparrows in the hall. We pass from darkness to darkness with only a moment of light in between. The only hope of immortality lies in Sovngarde."

Kodlak set aside the Song of Ylgar and rubbed his eyes wearily. Between the sickness and the prophetic dreams given to every true Harbinger, he was getting very little sleep. If it wasn't a devouring shadow invading Skyrim, it was the Imperial woman with turquoise eyes sitting in his seat. Three nights in a row he'd dreamed of her; three nights to confirm she would play a part in the Companions' future.

Someone tapped tentatively on his door. "Can't sleep?" Farkas, the gentle giant raised in Jorrvaskr alongside his rangier, smarter and more abrasive brother Vilkas, asked sympathetically.

"It isn't the beast blood," he told the warrior. "Dreams, Farkas."

"Dreams of Sovngarde or somethin' worse?" he asked.

Kodlak raised his old blurry eyes to the big dark man. "How do you know?"

"One, you're readin' Ylgar's Song. Two, Olava the Feeble told me that black wings were comin' to Skyrim," Farkas answered promptly. "That old woman's strange but she sees true, Harbinger."

"She also deals with the Dark Brotherhood," Kodlak pointed out wryly.

"So? I killed that skeever nest in her house and she told me that one day I'd be cured of the beast blood. Given you're lookin' into it, that must be true." Farkas' simple faith and sincerity filled his hoarse voice and Kodlak sighed, rubbing his eyes.

_Perhaps I should take a chance on him,_ he reasoned. "Take a seat, Farkas. What I am about to tell you is _not_ to be shared with anyone but you and I."

Farkas obeyed, those quicksilver eyes narrowed. "Not even Vilkas?"

"Not even Vilkas." The Harbinger took a deep breath and released it slowly. "I've dreamed of a woman."

The younger Companion grinned. "Good to know you've still got it, old man!"

Kodlak chuckled, finding ease in Farkas' gentle teasing. "A specific woman. Imperial with turquoise eyes." At the warrior's confusion, he added, "Blue-green."

"Like the plant stuff that grows in the shallow puddles in that hot land between Riften and Windhelm?" Farkas asked, showing more intelligence than even the Circle gave him credit for.

"I… Yes!" Kodlak smiled proudly at the Companion. "Very similar."

"So she'll be important to the Companions," Farkas continued. "You wouldn't dream of her otherwise."

"…Yes."

"Must be the new Harbinger. I remember Askar dreaming about you."

Kodlak stared at the younger man. "What makes you think that?"

"She's not a threat or you'd be telling Skjor and Aela, not me. Vilkas might scare her off. My brother's smarter than me but he can be sort of a dick to people at times." Farkas shrugged his massive shoulders. "So yeah. Guess you want me to find her."

Kodlak sighed in relief. Of the entire Circle, Farkas had been the last person he expected to implicitly grasp the request he was making, but the first he'd choose for the job. "Aye," he told the warrior. "Keep an eye out for her in your travels. I have faith in you, Farkas."

The gentle giant smiled happily, eager to be of service. If he'd been a touch harder and smarter, he'd make a good Harbinger. But perhaps he'd guessed aright and this Imperial woman would be the new Harbinger; with Farkas at her back, she'd be able to keep the others on the path of honour. Maybe she could even cure the lycanthropy.

"Don't worry. I'll find her, we'll cure the beast blood – well, those who want it gone – and you'll go to Sovngarde and save us a seat," Farkas said sincerely.

"You really believe that?" Kodlak asked, humbled by the younger man's hope.

"Of course. I have faith in you, Kodlak."

The Harbinger rose unsteadily to his feet and embraced Farkas fiercely. Unselfconsciously, the warrior returned the hug, and for the first time in years Kodlak felt hope for himself.


	3. The World-Eater Wakes

Note: Thanks for reading. I'll be skipping/glossing over events in the main storyline as suits the needs of the story.

…

**The World-Eater Wakes**

Whiterun Hold, 15th Last Seed 4E 201

"What is the meaning of this?"

Tullius turned from his oversight of the burning fields and stared down the haughty Dunmer woman in fine leather armour with his flattest stare. "We're engaging in a scorched earth campaign to starve out the rebels," he told her, judging by the warriors in yellow-wrapped chainmail behind her that she must be a ranking somebody in this Whitehelm or whatever Hold. Given that she was a dark elf, complete with fierce scarlet eyes to match her long hair, it was safe to say she wasn't a Stormcloak.

"The Pale begins just past that border stone," the Dunmer replied acidly. "You're currently burning the crops of Whiterun Hold."

Legate Rikke, his unwanted but necessary Nord aide, came striding up with a face full of thunder. "General, we're having enough trouble courting Jarl Balgruuf. Burning his fields won't make him any fonder of the Empire."

His automatic reaction – to point out that the stubbornly neutral Jarl owed his allegiance to the Empire – was stifled under a newfound tact born of necessity. Six weeks in this godsforsaken province had taught him the Nords were mighty warriors but poor soldiers unless trained young – but when they were made into Legionnaires, when they were united, it was easy to understand how Tiber Septim had conquered the world. "Put out those fires!" he bellowed.

Then he turned to Rikke, staring up at the solid Nord woman. "Why the hell aren't you in Hahflinger or wherever it is?" he demanded.

"Eastmarch. Haafinger is the hold of Elisif the Fair, rightful High Queen of Skyrim." Rikke's voice took on the belaboured patience that had developed alongside his tact. She was a damned fine Legate, even if she had bigger stones than most of the Elder Council put together.

_Give a legion of Rikkes and I'd win this damned war. Give me two and I could invade Alinor. Give me three and I'd return the Empire to its glory. _"My apologies," he said in an undirected apology to both the Dunmer and the Legate. "Your maps aren't very… precise."

"You should have local men in your Legion. Use them as pathfinders," the Dunmer suggested with an air of experience. She looked at the hastily doused fields and sighed. "My Jarl is going to have a fit."

"Irileth, huscarl to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater," Rikke murmured to Tullius. "He's everything a cosmopolitan ruler loyal to the Empire should be."

"Then why isn't he on our side?" Tullius asked, perhaps a shade too loudly.

"Because it is harvest time and Whiterun Hold feeds all of Skyrim," Irileth responded softly. "My Jarl has little love for Ulfric; Torygg was his kinsman."

"He restored order in Solitude and I suspect Irileth is the reason Ulfric only got away with one huscarl in the wake of Torygg's death," Rikke confirmed, giving the Dunmer woman a nod of respect.

"If that bastard Roggvir hadn't opened the gate, Ulfric's head would be adorning a pike," Irileth agreed with the grim certitude of a professional killer. "Before you say anything, my Jarl is the reason why Ulfric hasn't been able to reinforce Falkreath."

"Whiterun Hold is also home to the Companions, Skyrim's equivalent of the Fighters' Guild," Rikke added. "If Ulfric tried any atrocities here, he'd be facing about twelve highly pissed-off warriors respected by all of Skyrim as the heirs of Ysgramor."

"And no, they don't get involved in politics," Irileth pointed out. "It is… a pity Ulfric went too far. That duel should have been overseen by their Harbinger, the arbiter of honour in Skyrim."

"Not to be offensive, but you people are insane," Tullius told them both. "Regicide is regicide. I don't give a rat's arse if it's dressed up in ritual or not."

"This from a man whose nation's highest nobles wear dresses for formal occasions," Irileth responded coolly, revealing that she'd gone native. Rikke coughed, banging her breastplate, and Tullius grunted in acknowledgment of the hit.

"Irileth, I need to speak to the General in private. Can you make sure we haven't missed any flames?"

The huscarl's mouth pursed but she nodded, turning to the guards and Legionnaires with a barked command worthy of a drill Quaestor. It took years of hard-won dignitas to keep Tullius' jaw from dropping. Whatever this woman was, she knew command.

"I'll need to get Irkand to do some research on that one," he muttered.

"She's at least three centuries old and my sources tell me that the Dunmer of Skyrim hold her in near-religious awe," Rikke promptly said. "And not just because she's the first Dunmer huscarl in the history of Skyrim."

"Huh. So why are you in Whiterun instead of Eastmarch?" He needed to find a better map or a guidebook to this place. Only Stendarr knew how much diplomatic damage he'd caused with his assumptions.

"One: the Emperor sent a message that he's sending you a diplomat with more knowledge of the Nords than you," Rikke said with audible relief in her deep voice he chose to ignore. "Two: Ulfric's planning an operation in Darkwater Crossing and Galmar will be running something in Giant's Gap. I've sent the Eastmarch and Rift Legates to handle the Stone-Fist, but I thought you might like to handle Ulfric yourself."

Hadvar, one of the more reliable Nord Quaestors, came riding up with two horses in tow. "Ulfric has left the Whiterun Stormcloak camp for Darkwater Crossing," he announced in that soft, measured voice.

Tullius came from rancher stock; he jumped onto the smallest horse, a light grey one with a smart look in its eye, and settled easily in the saddle. "Do we have enough men to take him?"

"I've assembled a squad of thirty men and two battlemages," Hadvar told him quietly. "If we can't take the Stormcloak with that, we don't have the right to call ourselves Nords _or_ Legionnaires."

It would have to do. "Huscarl Irileth!" he called out. The Dunmer looked to him and he nodded to her. "You have command of my men for the next three days or until I come back, whichever is first."

Irileth nodded in satisfaction. "I'll set them to hunting and drying meat," she responded. "Azura knows we'll need it with those fired fields."

Tullius accepted the implied rebuke with a grimace. "I'll speak to the Quartermaster about reparations."

The Dunmer smiled and he knew that she'd overheard the conversation. "Finish this war quickly and none will be necessary."

The General of the Fifth Bruma nodded and nudged his horse into a canter, Rikke and Hadvar behind him. It was time to end this damned war.

…

Dragonsreach, 17th Last Seed 4E 201 (Morning)

"Fucking Colovian bastard."

Irileth accepted her Jarl's proffered tankard of mead and drank thirstily, throat dry from the harrying of the plains she'd undertaken with a squad of twenty Legionnaires and thirty Whiterun guards. Thanks be to Azura that none had been lost from the squad, though several had been wounded.

"Tullius is the Emperor's Nutcracker," Proventus, buttering a half-loaf of bread, observed shrewdly. "As a diplomat, he is an excellent general."

"It says volumes about what the Emperor thinks of Skyrim, that we can only be dealt with through force," Balgruuf complained, leaning back in his seat. The children had already eaten and were now with their tutor, leaving the Jarl, his brother and advisers alone in the private dining room.

"I suspect that the General learned otherwise today – and that Titus Mede realises his mistake, because Rikke said that a diplomat familiar with us was on their way," Irileth noted once her mead was finished. She'd picked up a taste for it on Solstheim.

"I'll still take the bastard for all I can," the Jarl muttered. "Proventus, play up the damage and get what you can from the Legion."

"Of course, my Jarl," the Steward agreed. He might be an unctuous son of a bitch but he knew his job.

Balgruuf sighed and ran his hand over a face with deeper worry lines than before Torygg's death. "We need the Empire. We can't stand alone. But Cyrodiil needs to pay more attention to us."

"Hopefully this diplomat will make it happen," Proventus said.

"We should be taking the battle to the Stormcloaks. The Legion needs to know we're loyal," Hrongar, Balgruuf's younger brother, insisted.

"Since the days of Tiber Septim, the Nords have marched in defence of the Empire. And in return, our hero-god is denied, we are ignored, and the Emperor regards us as barbarians," Balgruuf pointed out to his brother testily. "We need to remind the Colovians who founded their bloody Empire."

"Well, if Tullius succeeds in taking Ulfric, the civil war will be over," Irileth noted. "So you'd better act fast, my Jarl-"

"Irileth! You need to see this!" Caius, the commander of the city guard, slammed open the door to the dining room without hesitation. The four within looked at each other before rising as one; he wouldn't dispense with protocol unless it was an emergency. "All of you. And bring bows."

He led them to the Great Porch where the guards practiced their archery as a… black winged creature flew by between them and High Hrothgar to the east, calling eerily… Almost mockingly. Horned and scaled with bat-wings, it sailed on the currents as if it had all the time in the world before disappearing on the horizon.

"'When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding/the World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn,'" quoted Farengar, his haughty voice far too eager for someone speaking of an ancient doom. The wizard, clad in his dark blue robe minus the hood, closed the book he'd been reading, eyes alight with excitement. "I suspect that was Alduin himself."

Irileth looked to Balgruuf, noting the ashen pallor of his long face. "Traditionally, dragons breathe fire and frost," she told him slowly. "Their scales are obviously like armour-"

"Set up measures to combat fires, have bows and quivers of arrows placed on every vantage point we have, and create a horn-signal to warn of coming… dragons," the Jarl finally said. "For we're the children of Skyrim and we fight all our lives-"

"And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies," Irileth finished with an understanding glance. "We will die on our feet with our heads held high."

Farengar looked upwards at the rafters of the Great Porch. "I'll see the dragon-trap restored too," he suggested with rare practicality. "If we can catch one, I can study it and find ways to combat them."

"I'll get Kodlak to send the Companions around on patrols," Hrongar added as his brother's shoulders sagged. He sounded almost as eager as Farengar; maybe the twain imagined themselves as Dragonborn.

_Fucking prophecies,_ Irileth thought bitterly, twisting her platinum ring as she always did in stress. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll eat Ulfric first."

Balgruuf barked a laugh, his shoulders straightening. "He can have Tullius for dessert."

Irileth placed her hand on her friend's arm. "I have been with you these past twenty years, my friend. I will stand by you until the end."

"Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll be the Dragonborn," Balgruuf told her with a smile. "That way, I _know_ the beast will die, for you have never failed me yet."

"The Gods only choose one hero per prophecy," she pointed out in Dunmeris. Only Balgruuf in Whiterun knew of her history. "Perhaps it will be you. Aren't you descended from Olaf One-Eye?"

"And here I thought you liked me," Balgruuf quipped before sighing and returning to Nord. "Avenicci, call a Holdthing. And gag Heimskr. I don't need him ranting about Talos. Not today."

Given that the preacher was always offensive to her, Irileth smiled. "I'll do it myself," she said with a smirk. "What shall you be doing, my Jarl?"

Balgruuf smiled crookedly. "I want to go and have a drink. But instead I'll finish breakfast and plan messages for Idgrod and the other Jarls. It's going to be a long day."

…

The North Coast of Skyrim, 17th


	4. The Winter War

Note: Thanks for reading!

…

**The Winter War**

North Coast of Skyrim, 18th Last Seed 4E 201

_Creak of wood, screams, lightning. Taste of saltwater in her mouth, something smashing into her face, bloodpainneedtobreathe! Lungs burning, grab piece of wood, fall into dull trance. Finally black out when pebbles and sand are felt beneath her._

"Hey, wake up!"

Aurelia's eyes slowly opened, a blurry pink face crowned by long grey hair filling her vision. "Wha-?"

"Easy now," said a male voice with rough kindness. "Can you wriggle your fingers and toes for me?"

She obeyed, wincing at the giant aching bruise that was her body. But the man made a satisfied sound, placing a hand on her head. Golden light rushed through her veins, easing the pain somewhat, enough that a burly young Nord in rough linen robes could help her sit up. "Easy Onmund," chided the older man, clearly a mage by his use of a Restoration spell. "I'm not Colette, you know, to completely heal a person with a touch."

"Sorry Master Tolfdir," the brown-haired young man apologised. "I'm impressed you know Heal Others though."

"Alteration might be my School of specialty, lad, but a good wizard learns spells for every contingency." Tolfdir wrapped a scrap of fur around Aurelia's shoulders as she struggled to regain her wits. "Steady, my girl. That storm was mage-made."

"Stormcloaks?" she croaked, her voice a hoarse parody of its typical throaty self.

Tolfdir's derisive snort was its own answer but Onmund, who had a broad, earnest face, scowled. "True Nords don't use magic," he muttered.

"Yet every Jarl has his wizard," Tolfdir said chidingly. "Attitudes are changing, my boy. But I'm sure our friend here doesn't care about internal politics."

"Do." Lia swallowed, trying to get the taste of blood and bile and salt from her throat, and was offered a skin. She drank and almost coughed out the sweet-sour liquid within; only the fact it tasted better than the aftermath of almost drowning kept it down. "Do. Emp'rer sent me here. Help make peace."

Tolfdir sighed as Onmund dragged some of the wreckage of the Winter War, the ship that carried her from Balmora in Morrowind, and cast a fire spell on it. The hard ride from Bruma to Morrowind, as Riften just over the border was in rebel hands, had been hellish for one used to lounging around attending on the Emperor of Tamriel. "That storm, my girl, was sent to your ship-"

"Except it hit Hela's Folly and a few others," Onmund interrupted. "That's why we're out here, to investigate."

"Yes. The College of Winterhold has it hard enough without someone deliberately using sorcery to murder someone." Tolfdir and Onmund helped her to stand after another application of Heal Others, the spell making the old man look exhausted.

"Winterhold is Stormcloak territory." Aurelia had spent a week learning all she could about Skyrim. Years spent analysing and deciphering Titus' moods had left her able to think despite a splitting head and what had to be a broken nose.

"But we have a Thalmor… adviser… at the College," Tolfdir pointed out with a sigh. "We're trying to get rid of the goldskin bastard, but…"

"More chance of Mehrunes Dagon taking up knitting than that happening," Aurelia managed to joke. She didn't want to think about the significance of a broken nose and probably facial cut. Her beauty was her greatest weapon and if she lost it...

"Indeed." Tolfdir sighed again, pointing east to a grey smudge on the horizon. "That city there is Windhelm." Then he pointed west to a bridge. "That's Winterhold."

Aurelia swore for the first time in years. "I need to get to Solitude."

"We can take you to one of those places," Tolfdir told her bluntly. "I sympathise with your situation and certainly want this civil war over, but we have our own problems."

Aurelia nodded, wincing at the pain stabbing her brain. "You mentioned a healer. Please take me to Winterhold."

Tolfdir nodded, lips pursing. "I guess the Thalmor adviser might be able to-"

"The Thalmor have every reason to keep the civil war going," Aurelia interrupted with a croaking laugh. Then her knees gave out and it was only Tolfdir and Onmund's grip on her arms that stopped her from hitting the gravelly beach face-first.

"Onmund, salvage anything that might be useful. Neither I or the lady are capable of travel." The old mage helped her to sit by his apprentice's fire before joining her, shoving braided grey hair back with frustrated gestures. "My apologies. I am Tolfdir, the Alteration teacher at the College of Winterhold, and my student is Onmund. He has a knack for warding."

"And a strong back," the young man grinned as he searched through the scattered debris. "Wow. Shiny." He held out a particular satchel filled to the brim with jewellery. "Yours?"

"Yes…" Aurelia sighed. "I need the jewelled medallion and the silver ring with the Imperial symbol on it. The rest is useful, but not necessary. Keep it for your troubles, please."

Onmund made a derisive noise. "It's all enchanted and I know them all, so no use disenchanting them. Thanks, but no thanks."

"What Onmund means to say is that enchanted jewellery is ridiculously easy for us to come by at the College," Tolfdir said, looking reprovingly at the apprentice. "Besides, I'm not sure that earrings that allow for someone to catch their wind faster or a ring that enhances one's charisma would be suitable for an apprentice."

"Thanks," Aurelia responded fervently, taking the satchel from Onmund. "I'll… need all the help I can get."

She swallowed thickly, the enormity of what was lost crashing into her consciousness. Two dozen people dead in what was probably a planned attack. All because of her. _Is it because I'm the Emperor's envoy… or the mother of his heir?_

Dignitas was lost as she burst into tears. The mages seemed sympathetic, but as Tolfdir said, they had their own problems. She was in the middle of hostile territory with people looking to kill her. And Titus was counting on her to prove herself.

_I can't tell anyone who I am,_ she thought once the brief spate of weeping, politely ignored by the mages, passed. _Not until I get to Solitude._

"Call me Lia," she finally said. It was a common name used by Aurelii women undercover.

"An Aurelii?" At her startled glance, Tolfdir chuckled. "I was a battlemage in my youth. Your clan was… busy… during the Great War."

_Given that my grandfather started it, I bet they were,_ Lia – best start thinking of herself like that – thought bitterly. Until she was in safe territory, she was just another Aurelii woman sent to use her wiles on the Jarls of Skyrim.

"Best stay in town. There's an inn and a shop and the Jarl's longhouse; that's about it." Tolfdir smiled sympathetically at her. "Ancano's a nosy bastard and a skilled mage."

"But how are we going to explain a woman in silks?" Onmund pointed out pragmatically. "I've got a spare robe, but-"

"Hmm… Visiting scholar?" Tolfdir sighed, looking towards Winterhold. "We'll work it out tomorrow. Onmund, I hate to do this to you-"

"I'm fresh, so I'll keep watch," the younger mage agreed affectionately. He seemed to treat the kindly Tolfdir as a grandfather.

"Thank you, Onmund," Lia told him as Tolfdir wrapped his cloak about himself tighter and fell asleep. "Wake me for midnight watch. I… know a little healing magic and gods willing, sleep will ease my headache a bit."

"You've got a headache? No, you can't sleep." Onmund's eyes were serious. "You were hit in the face by something and it probably rattled your head. So no sleeping. Not until Tolfdir can check you out tomorrow."

Lia's response was rude and the young mage grinned. "I'll need to use that one on J'zargo," he noted. Then he tilted his head. "So talk to me. Tell me about Cyrodiil. Have you ever seen the White-Gold Tower?"

She agreed, and in returned asked as much as she could about Skyrim. Verbal interplay was something a Companion could do half-asleep, as she was, and she forced herself to stay watchful and listen to Onmund's stories. If she was to succeed, she needed to learn as much about her mother's homeland as she could.

…

The Jarl's Longhouse, Winterhold, 20th Last Seed 4E 201 (Night)

"Those mages destroyed Winterhold, you know."

"That's as may be, but they do have one of the greatest libraries in Skyrim." Lia smiled at Thaena the Jarl's wife. "I prefer my magic nice and contained, preferably enchanted."

Jarl Korir grunted. They were seated at a table in the inn, much to Dagur the innkeeper's visible exasperation, because the Jarl insisted on personally questioning the 'Imperial'. Since she'd arrived with Tolfdir and Onmund, who'd promised to find a useable map for her so she could travel overland, she'd found herself approached by the few inhabitants of this desolate town. Apparently a (presumably) non-mage arrival here was a big occasion.

"Well, it's the only library under Stormcloak control," Kai Wet-Pommel, the resident Stormcloak commander, pointed out. He was a smart man with a sharp wit who immediately realised she was Nord instead of Imperial.

"The Imperials have too many books," Korir muttered. "Books lead to magic… and magic leads to your city being ruined!"

"Magic enchants and heals," Kai observed with a long-suffering sigh. "The Stormcloaks will need more mages if we are to match the Empire."

"Winterhold will outlast the Empire!" Korir insisted. "It will outlast them all."

_Only because it's such a shithole of a place that the World-Eater would ignore it,_ Lia thought sardonically.

"Tell me, Imperial, what do the people of Cyrodiil think about losing Talos?" Thaena asked, her voice challenging. "Do they even care or are they too busy sucking Thalmor cock?"

Lia found herself smiling – and the Jarl's wife shrank back. "I come from Bruma, which as anyone of good breeding and education knows was the home of the Great Chapel of Talos. When the Thalmor came through to destroy Cloud Ruler Temple, they used magic to pull it down over the heads of half the city's Nord populace and a good many Blades. The fighting continued through the streets, the Castle Bruma spared at the request of the Count, who'd submitted to the Justiciars' purge, and continued up the mountain. My clan, the Aurelii, lost roughly two thirds of our numbers as we were traditionally aligned with the Blades. I was at Cloud Ruler when the Thalmor came; a little girl, four or five. I remember smoke and screams and stifling darkness – a Khajiit Blade had taken pity on me and hidden me in a small bolthole with his kit. I spent nine days drinking cat piss and praying to every Divine there was to be saved. On the ninth day, an Agent of Dibella found me."

"Which is obviously why you serve Dibella," Kai noted shrewdly.

"Dibella is the Lady of All Joys, the Muse and the Goddess with the Blood-Red Lips in addition to being the Queen of Love," Lia agreed, throwing a glance at the silent Thaena. "I don't deny the Divinity of Talos. It's just that the Thalmor are _everywhere_ in Cyrodiil. Until your Ulfric started… well… _everything_, you pureblood Nords were blessed by their relative absence."

"Wait, what do you mean by 'pureblood Nord'?" Korir asked, his eyes intent.

Lia sighed. Trust him to focus on the one little not particularly relevant bit. "My mother was a Nord, but my father was Imperial," she responded.

"What she is saying, Jarl Korir, is that she's an Imperial-raised Nord from Bruma, which is to say she's an Aurelii," Kai explained, his tone one of long-suffering patience. Lia wondered how long before he was made Jarl of this desolate place. "They're an old Blades clan."

"Does everybody know of my bloody clan?" Lia asked the Stormcloak commander. _Shit, I've revealed too much!_

"Not everyone. But Ulfric's highest commanders are apprised of potential allies… or enemies." The burly warrior smiled crookedly. "You could be a valuable asset to the cause, Lia. A Nord with a grudge against the Thalmor who can pass as Imperial…"

"With all due respect, I have enough on my platter without getting involved in a conflict," Lia replied truthfully. "I'm here to consult the library at the College then go to Solitude to talk to the bards."

"Jarl Korir!" One of the guards entered the inn, accompanied by a golden-haired Stormcloak who looked a bit ragged and exhausted. "A message from Jarl Ulfric!"

The red-haired Korir stood up, smoothing down his wrinkled robes. "What is it?"

The handsome Stormcloak tucked a braid behind one ear, helping himself to a bottle of ale which he drank down before responding. "A dragon attacked Helgen. Jarl Ulfric said it was Alduin the World-Eater himself."

_Helgen… That's in the south, just across the border from Bruma… _"'Sundered, kingless, bleeding'," Lia murmured, the words that had haunted her since Torygg's death crystallising. "'The World-Eater wakes'."

Korir and Thaena stared at her, but Kai narrowed his eyes. "You knew about this," he said accusingly.

_Time to bullshit… _"Well, _yes_. Contrary to popular belief, not all the Blades lore was lost. But enough has been I need to consult the mages _and_ bards," Lia responded dryly. "But I couldn't come out and say dragons were coming back, because you'd think I was crazy."

"Blooded, this is Lia. She's a Blade from Bruma," Kai told the golden-haired Stormcloak. "She recognises the Divinity of Talos."

The Stormcloak smiled. "I'm Ralof," he greeted, offering a callused hand. "Ulfric would welcome your counsel, I'm sure."

Lia rose to her feet, wondering how far she could push this. The pureblood's smile widened as he noted her height and the firmness of her handshake. "My job is the dragons. I don't want to sound like a bitch, but Torygg's death was… well…"

"Fated," Ralof finished. "Ulfric was… unhappy about it. He blames himself for unleashing Alduin."

_And so he bloody should,_ the pseudo-Blade thought. "I don't suppose you enthusiasts would stop fighting the Legion so we can get to the business of kicking Alduin's scaly arse back to Sovngarde?"

"If Legate Rikke was in command, I would gladly do so," observed a rich, resonant baritone from the doorway. "For despite her allegiance, she is a woman of honour."

The man who entered the inn was broad-shouldered and swathed in chainmail and furs, bearing the signs of battle and hard travel. Dark blond hair was braided on either side of his rugged face, sea-green eyes regarding the room's meagre inhabitants with the imperiousness of a king. Korir and Thaena actually knelt as Kai saluted.

"Let me guess, you're Ulfric Stormcloak," Lia observed ruefully, almost bowled over by the man's presence. Yes, he was a regicide and a traitor, but… well, he was bloody charismatic. More so than Titus.

Ulfric's full lips quirked to the side. "And you are a Blade," he noted. "I can understand why you would be… frustrated."

"Why don't you announce it a little louder? I don't think they heard you in Alinor and when I get to Solitude, things will be hard enough for me."

The Jarl of Windhelm nodded slowly, watching Lia like a hawk. "I am sorry about the wreck of the Winter War," he said. "A terrible tragedy."

"The College says it was mage-sent, but none of their people did it," Kai said, eyes flickering to Lia. She forced herself to remain calm, even nonchalant, for if her true identity was discovered-

-She'd likely be returned to Titus in pieces.

"I've heard that there's a Thalmor adviser there that none of them are happy about," she finally answered. "Given those goldskin bastards like to kill Blades…"

Ulfric inclined his head subtly. "I didn't know the Blades were still organised-"

"They're not. Even my clan is… mixed." Lia measured out dribs and drabs of truth to leaven her falsehoods. "I pulled some strings I had in the Imperial Court to get assigned here so I could track down the old lore."

"You know I was trained as a Greybeard, correct?" Ulfric asked, his eyes intent.

"The old guys who sit on their arses atop a mountain and Shout to the sky?" Lia countered, remembering an old complaint of her uncle's. "You obviously don't follow their beliefs, given your willingness to be as a Tongue of old."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. "Where do you stand in this war, Blade?"

Lia met his eyes squarely. "I stand on the side of making sure the World-Eater gets his scaly arse kicked back to whence he came, Jarl."

The Jarl grunted noncommittally. "I suppose I cannot fault you though I would appreciate your knowledge of… covert dealings. Your name and description will be passed along to my commanders, and so long as you continue to focus on the dragons, you will have free passage through my lands."

_That is… fucking perfect._ Lia nodded briefly, refusing to bow to the man. "Of course, Jarl. Just be aware that I will be sharing any information I find equally with the Imperials."

"Your honesty is appreciated." Ulfric sighed as Dugar brought him a tankard of mead. "You will require the Dragonborn to slay Alduin permanently. The Thalmor will fear this and hunt you through the lands. The Imperials will not stop them, but I can shelter you."

_Dragonborn… As in someone like Martin Septim?_ Lia sighed inwardly as she realised her mission to save and unite Skyrim got a whole lot more complicated. "I would say you might be surprised, but I don't want to get into a political debate," she countered dryly. "Thanks for the help."

"Don't thank me, thank your colleague Delphine," Ulfric responded. "She is an ally of ours."

_Delphine… Name's familiar but I can't place her._ "I'll do so," Lia promised, meaning it. Ulfric might be a king-killing racist jackass, but he did seem genuinely concerned about the dragons. "I don't want to be rude, but it's been a long day and… yeah. I need some sleep."

"Bed's on the house for helping with Ranmir," Haran told her.

"Thanks." Lia nodded and went for the guest room, feeling Ulfric's eyes following her. She wasn't quite sure how successful her bullshitting was, and now she was stuck in the role of being a Blade in Stormcloak territory, but at least she could have free reign to get a general idea of the attitude on the ground in the northeast of Skyrim.

As she had done since arriving in Winterhold, she pulled out the small brass mirror – enchanted to magnify and show a clear, albeit ruddy-gold reflection – and examined her face stolidly. The wooden plank which had collided with her cheek and nose during the shipwreck left a wicked vertical scar down her left cheek, her aquiline nose slightly askew, and Colette the healer had hacked off most of her hair because it was a snarled mess. Gone was the almost supernatural symmetry of her features, prized by Titus, and the rich locks of her glossy black hair. Saltwater and sun had left her tresses straight and rough instead of coiled and silky.

Last night she'd wept once she realised she was marred for life. Though Titus had valued her for her intelligence, he'd been prouder of his Nord-tall Imperial beauty. Now the only value she would possess lay in her diplomatic skills. The stakes had been high before she came to Skyrim, but now she was here?

She would have to somehow find a way to help defeat Alduin and return Skyrim to the Empire… or Martin would die.


	5. In Death's Home

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Sorry for the massive lull in updates; I'm moving into a new apartment, so busy!

…

**In Death's Home**

Falkreath, 21st Last Seed 4E 201

Being just over the border from Hammerfell, Falkreath had its fair share of Redguards, but there was something about one of them in the Dead Man's Drink that raised Farkas' hackles. Dispatched here by Skjor to track down a renegade werewolf that ate a kid and then escaped, he wanted this job over and done with so he could sniff out Kodlak's replacement. _The green-eyed Imperial woman…_

The Companion sniffed again and growled as he scented deathbell and nightshade on the Redguard who was trying too hard to seem like a sympathetic ear to old Jarl Dengeir. Clad in the red robes, leather breastplate and burnoose of an Alik'r, his face was too aquiline for one of the desert men, hinting at Imperial ancestry, and his accent was more Ra Gada nomad than Alik'r warrior. He could feel the pounding of the Black Door that Companion lore claimed hid the Dark Brotherhood inside nearby; maybe the Empire had gone off and hired the assassins.

When the Redguard looked over his shoulder at Farkas, the werewolf turned his gaze to the other sore thumb in the inn, a richly clad Nord youth with sleek black hair and a supercilious expression. His voice was condescending as he tried to talk one of the bar maids into bed with him. The maid didn't look as impressed with the dandy as he was with himself.

Finally Mathies entered the Dead Man's Drink, his wife Indara in tow. The Nords of Falkreath tended to darker tones because of Hammerfell's proximity, but only the farmer's height distinguished him from the shorter Ra Gada in the tavern. Farkas had left them alone as Runil the priest buried the daughter slaughtered by Sinding, but he'd spoken to Kust the gravedigger about being here to deal with the renegade shifter. Given the married couple headed his way, the laconic Nord must have told them.

"Thank you for coming, Companion," Mathies said fervently, grabbing Farkas' meaty paw and shaking it desperately. "We can't spare much coin, but-"

"Sinding is a danger to everyone," the Companion interrupted, gently clasping the farmer's hand. "Jarl Dengeir's also chipped in for the fee, so don't worry."

"Thank the Eight and One!" Indara breathed, then looked around furtively like she'd said something bad. Ria sometimes used the same expression and looked as nervous, even in Jorrvaskr.

"He escaped this morning, not long after you arrived in town," Mathies said, clasping his wife's hand worriedly. "Only the gods know where that monstrous bastard is now."

_Must've sniffed me out,_ Farkas thought grimly. It would be a wild chase. He may even need to go wolf, something that Kodlak would be displeased about. But if it finished the job…

_Aela and Skjor want us to remain a pack while Kodlak and Vilkas want to go to Sovngarde,_ he thought unhappily as Mathies broke down sobbing, the more stoic Indara biting her lip. Ria had once explained that Imperial dignitas – their honour, he supposed – forbade excessive shows of emotion. Imperials were strange like that.

"No matter where he goes, I will find him," promised the warrior unhappily. This looked like it would be more than a simple job. Damn! He had to find the Imperial woman.

His train of thought was interrupted by Dengeir falling off his stool, writhing and clawing himself. Everyone stood up and clustered about him – well, everyone but Farkas, the dandy and the suspect Redguard. The first knew he was bad at helping people because he wasn't that smart, the second looked pretty damned smug, and the third didn't look surprised.

"Get him into the Jarl's longhouse," commanded Zaria the local healer. Lod the huscarl/blacksmith and Nenya the Steward did so, leaving the tavern as the townsfolk muttered worriedly amongst themselves.

Farkas inwardly shuddered as the Redguard looked at him again. "I'd better start the hunt," he told Mathies and Indara. "I should be back within the week."

A Companion never showed fear, but Farkas' exit was hasty. For in the Redguard's look was death and something deeper, darker, worse than the beast blood. And he didn't want to meet it.

…

Falkreath, 22nd Last Seed 4E 201

Siddgeir was handsome, groomed within an inch of his life and clad only as a dandy of the Imperial Court could be. He wore his new jade circlet and smiled smugly at his new peasantry as Nenya the Steward took their oaths of loyalty. Irkand normally didn't give a damn about the results of his work, but he almost pitied the people of Falkreath. Their new Jarl was a useless sack of shit wrapped in silk brocade.

It had been a near thing last night with that… Companion… in the tavern watching. Irkand had never seen such pale eyes, fierce and burning as quicksilver, or the feral presence the warrior exuded. He pitied Sinding, a man who'd lost control of his werewolf powers (and whom Irkand had aided in escaping to provide a distraction), because 'Farkas' promised to be a deadly hunter.

Once the ceremony was done, Dengeir having been removed from his post because of a 'brainstorm' (in reality a carefully applied Frenzy spell), Siddgeir slouched on his throne and eyed Irkand and Legate Skulnar Skull-Crusher resentfully. "Why is he still alive?" the Jarl pouted.

"Because if your uncle died, it would be obvious he was poisoned," Irkand explained for the umpteenth time. Since everyone in the Longhouse was in on the plot, he could talk relatively freely. "Hearts and minds, Siddgeir-"

"Jarl Siddgeir, if you please," the idiot interrupted.

Irkand felt his lips spread in a smile and enjoyed the sight of the petty kinglet quailing back in fear. "You are Jarl because it is useful for the Empire, boy. Abuse or impoverish your people in pursuit of your petty vanity and you will no longer be useful. Is that clear?"

"Y-yes!" Siddgeir stammered, sweat darkening his short black hair.

"Excellent. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a bed with my name on it." Irkand rose to his feet and smiled again for effect. It was always pleasant to see the high and mighty receive a taste of reality.

Exiting the stifling longhouse, Irkand inhaled the nightshade-scented air appreciatively, feeling a strange heartbeat beneath his feet. This place felt like he was close to home; a strange thing, as Irkand had never had one. Not since the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple.

_And now the World-Eater returns. It is a pity Father isn't around for this; he'd feel right at home fighting a dragon. I hope enough of the Blades survived to aid the Dragonborn…_ Irkand no longer considered himself Third Blade, not after publicly breaking an Amulet of Talos and stepping on the pieces to save both himself and Aurelia. His brother Rustem, the girl's father, had left them both to die.

The assassin sighed. Aurelia had risen beyond his wishes, but the Emperor wasn't to be denied and the other elders had insisted on the girl becoming a Companion. Irkand's lips quirked as he wondered what the warrior Farkas would make of an Imperial Companion being a courtesan.

_At least she is safe in Cyrodiil-_

"Irkand Aurelius?"

The soft, husky male voice addressing him by name had Irkand drawing his ebony dagger and placing the curved blade against the thick throat of a Nord before he registered the man was in the light Imperial armour preferred by messengers. In typical Nord style, the brown-haired Legionnaire showed no fear as the assassin snarled, "Who are you and how do you know my name?"

"My name is Praefect Hadvar and Legate Sevan Telendas of the Winterhold forces sent a message via courier for you," the soft-voiced soldier answered calmly.

"Praefect? That's a little high in rank to be an errand boy," Irkand noted as he sheathed the dagger. Sevan was an occasional ally of his.

"I was promoted yesterday," Hadvar responded grimly. "I survived Helgen."

"Congratulations for you," Irkand drawled. He did like needling Nords. "What does my old friend Sevan want now?"

Hadvar's plain, broad face became gentle with… pity? Sympathy? "He passed on the message that a ship known as the _Winter War_ was driven on the rocks by a storm and that… your niece Aurelia was on board."

"…What?"

"The Legate said that as your niece Aurelia was a high-ranking member of the Court and a Nord to boot, she'd been sent to Skyrim by the Emperor to help General Tullius out diplomatically." Hadvar reached out and squeezed Irkand's shoulder sympathetically; the assassin was so stunned at what he was hearing that he didn't react. "The storm drove the ship onto the rocks between Windhelm and Winterhold. I'm sorry, but the Legion found no survivors… and Imperial agents in Winterhold confirm that neither did the Stormcloaks."

Irkand removed Hadvar's hand gently. The man meant well and did not deserve to die. "Thank you," he said. "If you're able, go tell Sevan I am grateful he found the time to send a courier to tell me."

Hadvar nodded sympathetically. "If she's the same Aurelia I met in Castle Bruma the day I told the Emperor of King Torygg's death, then she was a woman of honour, worthy to be called a Nord."

"…My niece was an Imperial whore," Irkand told the Praefact bitterly.

"What the Emperor made her does not detract from who she was," Hadvar retorted stubbornly. "A woman who respected a Quaestor's honour when the Emperor did not."

The Praefect saluted Irkand. "I will say a prayer to Arkay for her," he promised before melting into the perpetual fog and rain which cloaked Falkreath.

Irkand tilted his head to the sky and let the rain drench him, hiding the tears which slid down his cheeks. Sixteen years he'd been responsible for her, since Dar'saad had reluctantly delivered the beanpole brat he'd raised since the fall of Cloud Ruler. Somehow the muscle-bound Redguard Rustem and the hideously ugly Nord Sigdrifa had managed to breed a lithe beauty with more brains than most. If the Blades hadn't been destroyed, she would have become an _oiran_, an elite courtesan in the Akaviri tradition of which the Companions were a pale shadow. Instead she'd caught the eye of the Emperor at sixteen and borne him a son the next year, cementing her place as Imperial favourite.

_Hells beyond, what was she doing in Skyrim?_ Irkand asked of the uncaring gods. Had her frustration with Imperial handling of the northern province driven her to challenge Titus? The Emperor had a habit of assigning people to problems they reported as a means of testing them…

Since childhood, Irkand had been accused of being heartless. He let them believe that, when in reality he didn't see most people as worth caring about. Most people feared him – and rightfully so. But Aurelia, she'd never feared him as a child, though sympathetic wariness had developed when she was old enough to understand what he was.

Now she was dead and the man who'd not only taken her from the clan but pimped her out to his friends as a reward had effectively slain her.

_Titus Mede, I think the Empire needs a change of leadership,_ Irkand thought grimly as he wiped his face. _Martin, the poor lad, will need someone capable of protecting him. And you're not that man._

He caressed the hilt of his ebony dagger soothingly. It was time for dignitas, his moment of grief now passed. He would have to remember the Praefect Hadvar so he didn't kill him. Someone would mourn Aurelia as other than an Imperial consort.

_At least you have your own grave,_ he thought sadly as he headed for the Dead Man's Drink. _That was all you ever wanted._

And beneath his feet, the heartbeat continued, matching the thud of his own in grief.


	6. Believe, Believe the Dragonborn Comes

Note: Sorry for the focus on the Imperial stuff; I needed to get Farkas and Irkand out of the way before moving onto the Dragonborn. Playing with Mirmulnir's Shouts for a better battle. I apologise for the Aurelii-heavy plotline, but the Lancer and the Token Evil Teammate both hail from the clan, so it's relevant.

…

**Believe, Believe the Dragonborn Comes**

The Great Porch, Whiterun, 24th Last Seed 4E 201 (Dawn)

A week since the World-Eater had returned and no word from High Hrothgar to reveal the coming of the Dragonborn.

Balgruuf contemplated the bottle of Colovian brandy that sat on the dining table before looking up at the grim grey fortress high on the Throat of the World. Had Akatosh grown weary of humanity? Was Alduin here to usher in the next world? With the chaos in Skyrim, the Jarl of Whiterun couldn't fault the Aedra for being sick of the lot of them.

He sighed, shoulders sagging. Whiterun had been on edge since the dragon's coming. Though they went through the motions of vigilance, the inhabitants of his Hold expected to be devoured any day. Sometimes he wondered if it was worth fighting. His home was broken, his own Hold divided… "Is this our punishment for abandoning Talos?" he asked aloud.

No one answered him. Irileth, Hrongar and Caius were patrolling the western watchtower, Proventus doggedly doing accounts in his stubborn Colovian way, and the children were with Farengar learning about dragon-lore. Even Nelkir had shaken off his moodiness to learn about the beasts.

_I never guessed that Delphine had it in her to fetch the Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow,_ Balgruuf wondered. There was something… different… about the innkeeper now. She looked energised, hopeful and even eager despite her air of weary cynicism. _If she's just an adventurer turned innkeeper as she claims to be, then I am Talos reborn._

A haunting cry echoed over the mountains and Balgruuf felt a shiver slip down his spine. High and eerie, it looked to be coming from the east; raising a hand to shade his eyes against the dawn sun, he blanched as he saw a black dot speeding towards the western watchtower.

In the simple horn signals they used in Whiterun, one was for friends, two were for mortal enemies, three for supernatural… and now four for dragons. The Jarl grabbed the horn every person of warrior age was now wearing and blew it to warn the others. If the dragon came for him, then it would be a better death than… giving up.

The dragon laughed mockingly as he hovered over the western watchtower. _"Dreh hi lorot, joor, naav hin kendov fen sav niin?"_

And then the western watchtower erupted into flame as the dragon Shouted, Balgruuf watching helplessly from the Great Porch as horn calls echoed across his city. He took a deep, shaky breath and drew his orichalcum war-axe, shimmering with opalescent light from its enchantments. Though he'd never been meant to learn how to Shout, he had learned a smattering of the dragon tongue, mostly from the taunts a youthful Ulfric threw at him during their time at High Hrothgar.

_"Him monah los siigonis!"_ he bellowed, hoping to draw the beast's attention and save some of his soldiers. At the first horn call, Proventus would have chivvied the children and servants into the basement of Dragonsreach, to survive where he would not. He was Jarl of Whiterun, and in the oaths every lord of Skyrim took, it was his duty to willingly sacrifice his life so that his people could live. Balgruuf knew his chances against a dragon were nil. But he would die for his city gladly.

_"WUND NA KEST!"_ One moment the dragon hovered over the watchtower, dodging arrows, and then he was flapping his wings directly before the Great Porch, a terrible creature of ice-white scales and slitted golden gaze.

"I am Mirmulnir. Bow or be devoured," the beast said conversationally.

"I am Balgruuf, Jarl of Whiterun. Be gone from this place or I will mount your head next to Numinex's," Balgruuf retorted, keeping his voice steady though his guts were like water.

"You are descended from _Gein Minn_, the One Eye," Mirmulnir noted. "Your defeat will bring me no shame."

Balgruuf had the barest pause to dive for cover as the dragon Shouted fire again, but even then the heat stole the breath from the Jarl's lungs. It seemed even dragons had to pause for breath in between Shouts – the Jarl looked upwards and noted the trap had been repaired. _If I can trap the beast, Farengar will get his wish sooner than he thinks-_

"And you are an overgrown lizard," he taunted as he rose, backing towards the double-doors. "Your hide will make a nice cloak."

Mirmulnir laughed chillingly. "You fight with words but you back away, _Junseahrol._"

"Only because you smell of carrion, scavenger that you are."

_That_ got the dragon's attention; he Shouted again, this time frost. Balgruuf felt the icy wind and laughed mockingly at the beast. "I am Nord, a son of long winter! Frost is in my blood, lizard! You'll have better luck with your fangless maw!"

Mirmulnir landed on the Porch's protective wall and lunged forward with snapping teeth, which Balgruuf dodged easily. "You fight like an old woman!" he taunted. In the close confines of the Great Porch, he might just survive this-

The dragon crawled forward on his wings with shocking ease, fangs closing in on Balgruuf's axe and ripping it from the Jarl's hands. _"Brit grah,"_ the monster noted. "My lord will feast on your soul in Sovngarde, _Junseahrol_."

Balgruuf's hands, softer than most because he was usually on his arse, were burning and bleeding. He was out of breath. His guards wouldn't get here in time. He wouldn't be able to make it to the winch to close the trap on Mirmulnir before the beast Shouted him to death. The Jarl took a shaky breath and nodded. "Devour me. It will make for a better tale than being cooked."

Mirmulnir nodded graciously. "_Paaz, Junseahrol_. You have given me sport. You deserve that much."

Then he opened his maw and descended as Balgruuf grabbed an iron arrow from the nearby archery target. The dragon missed, snorted his annoyance, and opened his mouth again. The Jarl rammed the arrow's point into the monster's soft tongue, making Mirmulnir roar in pain and rear back, giving him enough time to retrieve a carelessly discarded iron battle-axe.

In later days, he'd never be able to determine how long the battle took, Mirmulnir unable to Shout and Balgruuf's lousy axe doing little more than chipping dragon scales. Broken, battered and bleeding, man and dragon fought until Balgruuf was able to grip the battle-axe just below the head and ram its top spike through one malevolent eye. Light and fire engulfed his world and he fell into unconsciousness.

…

College of Winterhold, 24th Last Seed 4E 201 (Just After Dawn)

Lia set aside the final book and muttered something about prophecies under her breath. Urag gro-Shub, old grouch that he was, eyed her darkly for breaking the silence of the Arcanaeum with profane language. He seemed to have an attitude about 'hobby scholars' even though everyone from Savos Aren down to J'zargo knew she was… well… a Blade (or believed it, in any case). Ancano, the Thalmor bastard, had made demands for her to be arrested and turned over to him, only to be laughed at by the locals, mage and non-mage alike.

But she'd plumbed the depths of Winterhold's library for the Dragonborn prophecy and found little of use. Savos had been apologetic and explained that the last known loremaster, a Breton named Esbern, had fled Winterhold with the Thalmor on his heels ten years ago. _"You should go speak to the man's pupil. He's the court wizard in Whiterun."_

Since Balgruuf was the stubbornly neutral Jarl who controlled the centre of Skyrim, her mission to bring the northern province back to the Empire would take her there anyway. Once she was in Whiterun, hopefully she could gather useful intelligence to bring back to Solitude.

Out of respect for the mages, Lia put the books away before leaving the library to get a good dose of fresh air. Birna the local shopkeeper had managed to arrange for some Skaal fur clothing: a thick hooded parka, a cap, breeches and boots. It was the most unattractive outfit possible, but kept her fairly warm, and Lia was no longer a prize anyways.

Faralda, the gatekeeper, was relighting the blue beacon which also served as a lighthouse to warn people sailing from Dawnstar to Windhelm. "How goes your study, Blade?" she asked politely. The Altmer mage had a strong dislike of Ancano, reminding Lia that the Thalmor weren't universally beloved by their own race.

"I need to go to Helgen," she said, knowing that Nirya nattered to Ancano because she fancied him.

"Ah," Faralda noted sympathetically. "You'll like it there. Warmer and far more interesting to a scholar of draconic lore."

"I'll settle for warmer at the moment," Lia observed dryly.

The Destruction Master pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You have some… infiltration skill as a Blade, yes?" she murmured, almond-shaped eyes flickering around the sparse courtyard with its snowberry bushes.

"Ye-es," Lia admitted, though she was rather rusty on that part.

"Nirya is feeding information to Ancano, information the Thalmor shouldn't have. She's stupid enough to keep it in writing. If you can bring me her journal, I can share with you an enchanted item that will keep you warm."

"I… see. And if I get caught?"

"You get kicked out of the College and Ancano will try to kill you." Faralda paused and added, "Whether or not the journal has proof, I will give you the item."

Lia sighed and nodded. "She's at lunch now. I might as well get it done."

Skaal clothing was warm but it was absolutely lousy for sneaking. So Lia didn't even bother. She walked into the Hall of Apprentices and found J'zargo delicately eating a bit of salmon. "How might this one help you?" the Khajiit apprentice asked, smiling lazily.

"This one has a task, but this one lacks the cunning of the fairest of races," she responded in Khajiit – or well, the best she could do lacking ears and whiskers to convey meaning. J'zargo's jaw dropped and she continued speaking. "This one offers a trade for you if you will help her with her task."

"It is rare to meet one who can speak a civilised tongue," J'zargo noted, regaining his aplomb speedily. "What would you trade with this one?"

"Answers," Lia offered.

"To what questions?" Khajiit, amongst themselves, could spend all day talking in circles and riddles. Even limited as she was, Lia had managed in Dar'saad's camp.

"What questions do you want answered?" Lia smiled inwardly; by pandering to his greed and vanity, she'd hooked him.

"J'zargo wishes to be a mighty mage. This one has noted you are a poor mage, but have some understanding of people. How would you become Arch-Mage?"

_J'zargo as Arch-Mage… Julianos would have a fit!_ "To be honest, this one would give off the appearance of honesty and helpfulness. Listen more than you boast, help more than you hinder, compliment more than you deride. You already know that you are the best; but to flaunt it is… well… crass."

The Khajiit's ears flattened in distaste. No Khajiit liked to be called crass. "It is the custom of Nords to boast!"

Lia smirked gently at the cat-man. "Just because you're in Skyrim doesn't mean you should pick up bad habits."

J'zargo sighed. "This one will think on your advice. How may J'zargo help you?"

"As this one knows, Nirya is much enamoured of Ancano, perhaps to the point of foolishness. This one, as a Blade, must protect herself and by extension the College. If you could get her journal, this one will have fulfilled her task."

J'zargo hissed angrily. "Fucking Thalmor," he said, the only time she'd ever heard him use foul language.

"Yes." Lia sighed, rubbing her cheek and feeling the scar. She still hadn't looked in the mirror; she didn't want to confront her ruined face.

"Hmm… If J'zargo discovers there is a plot, J'zargo will be seen to be helpful, just like you suggested." The Khajiit nodded. "This one will return."

He vanished – literally – and left Lia standing at the dinner table just as Brelyna Maryon walked into the room. "Oh!" the Dunmer blurted. "I was looking for J'zargo."

"He's doing a favour for me," Lia admitted. "Is it something I can help with?"

Brelyna brightened, no mean feat for a dour-looking dark elf. "Oh, yes please! I need someone to practice Alteration spells on. Don't worry, I haven't killed any of the goats I practiced on. Yet."

_I'm going to regret this…_ But she needed to buy time for J'zargo. "Sure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?"

…

Two Hours Later

"We will never speak of this again."

After being green, a cow and several other forms of animal life, Lia wholeheartedly agreed with Brelyna as Tolfdir dispelled the final spell with a wry chuckle. "You made a very pretty cow," the Nord mage grinned. "Black hide and the loveliest turquoise eyes!"

"Wonderful. I'm now better looking as a bovine than as a person," Lia muttered. Colette had done her best, but the scar was too deep to remove, and Lia's hair and skin were now roughened by lack of sheep's fat salve and the other beauty treatments a Companion relied upon to keep themselves lovely.

"Don't be ridiculous," Tolfdir chided. "You're still perfectly attractive, Lia. Plenty of Nord men will find you beautiful."

Brelyna pursed her lips. "If it's the scar that's bothering you, why don't you put on some war paint like the Nords do?"

Lia paused, and then hugged the startled Dunmer. "That is the most brilliant idea I've heard in a while. It's almost worth being turned into a cow for."

"A thick red stripe down the side of your face should do the trick," Tolfdir observed. "Well, in Imperial territory-"

"Pfft. Turquoise. Get the glowing mushrooms from caves and make a paste from that," Brelyna interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Tolfdir, you have no style."

The Dunmer smiled and turned to the alchemy table. "Glow dust and glowing mushrooms will give you some resistance to lightning spells," she explained. "So it's beautiful and practical."

One thing Lia had been paying attention to was alchemy. As a Companion, she knew about paints and potions which enhanced things; she knew how to cure poisons and diseases, brew stamina potions and those that regenerated it, and how to make her tongue sweeter. "Thanks," she said just as J'zargo skidded in.

"J'zargo has the book!" he crowed, waving around the journal.

_So much for subtlety,_ she thought grimly, preparing her explanation as Tolfdir and Brelyna turned to regard her-

_"DOVAHKIIN!"_

The earth shook and the sky rumbled as a Shout echoed across Skyrim. J'zargo's ears flattened as Tolfdir gasped and Brelyna flinched; Lia hugged herself in both relief and terror. Dovahkiin. Dragonborn. That much she'd gathered from the books.

When it was over, the world silent again, the four looked at each other worriedly. "You have your marching orders," Tolfdir finally said. "The Thalmor will come for the Dragonborn…"

"J'zargo can read some Altmeris," the Khajiit confessed.

"I hope so. We certainly teach it to you!" Tolfdir snapped.

The apprentice's ears flattened again. "Ancano has asked Nirya to research this… Dovah Kin?" He held out the journal.

The Master's nostrils flared. "I see." Then he sighed, looking at Lia. "Might I ask why you had J'zargo steal Nirya's diary?"

"Faralda asked me to," Lia admitted.

"Ah." Tolfdir sighed again. "For all their rivalry, Faralda is also our gatekeeper and head of security. Quid pro quo?"

"…Yes."

Tolfdir closed his eyes, looking strained. "You should leave soon. Since Esbern's departure, you might be the closest thing to a scholar of draconic lore in Skyrim other than that idiot Farengar. And like it or not, you're already identified as a Blade."

"My allegiance is to the Empire-"

"Which will be destroyed if Alduin wins and/or the Thalmor kill the Dragonborn." Tolfdir's gaze was relentless as he opened his eyes. "That storm was sent to kill _you_. You're already a target. How could serving the Dragonborn make things any more difficult for you?"

"He could be a Stormcloak," Lia countered.

"Inconvenient, but not insurmountable." Tolfdir's voice was unyielding. "Where you go from here is your own concern, Lia. But for the sake of the world and the child you bore – yes, Colette noticed that – you would probably be best aiding the Dragonborn. But you will have to leave the College by tomorrow morning at the latest."

_Damn him, he's right. _Lia was no scholar of the arcane by any means, but she had a working knowledge of the Dragonborn prophecy, Imperial contacts and charisma, if no more beauty. And since she was now marred, the Dragonborn might even trust her more, especially if they were Nord. "Why me?" she asked mournfully.

"Why not?" Brelyna pointed out. "Tiber Septim didn't conquer the world with just his Voice, you know. He had good friends and followers."

"J'zargo would make an excellent Dragonborn, but since Akatosh probably feared to lose His job, it is likely some stupid Nord," the Khajiit agreed with a toothy grin. "Since you know some of Khajiit ways, you are not entirely stupid, and therefore he will need your help."

"Thanks," Lia retorted dryly before sighing. "Damn you all, you're right. But if I'm the last of the Blades, we're all screwed."

"And if history is correct, Aurelia Northstar was a thug and a drunk before she became Guild Master of the Fighters' Guild, Grand Champion of the Arena, Hero of Kvatch and the Grand Master of the Blades, having helped Martin Septim save Cyrodiil from the Oblivion Crisis," Tolfdir countered relentlessly. "You come from the same blood, Lia – why can't you be any less?"

_Because I'm a scarred whore with enough knowledge to pretend being learned, enough cunning to pretend being a Blade, and mother of an Imperial heir who is trapped in Cyrodiil with no one to protect and love him! _Lia cried silently. There was no way Tolfdir could know her true identity, but he obviously knew enough about Aurelii to press her buttons.

Once her clan held heroes. Now it held assassins and whores. Until or if the real Blades, the few who survived Thalmor purges, showed up, she was likely the best thing, Aedra help them all. "I'm going to need some supplies, above and beyond what I've already got."

Tolfdir nodded thoughtfully. "Let it not be said the College stinted on our duty to Skyrim."

_Beata Dibella, have mercy on me though it is not in Your nature. Come to me, Dibella, for without You, my words must lie dull and leaden without the gilding of grace and sagacity to enchant the reader's ear and eye. Give me the wit and wisdom to aid the Dragonborn, if that is my duty, and to save the Empire. For if we fall and fail, then there is no hope for the world…_

…

_First Emissary Elenwen,_

_ The Aurelii lineage is like a bad septim, always turning up when least wanted. My work at the College has been severely curtailed by the barefaced cheek of one claiming to be a Blade; Savos won't remove me as he knows what will happen to his family, but Faralda and the other wizards will not cooperate._

_ On an optimistic note, the energy I'm sensing from Saarthal is promising. Something of great power is definitely buried there. I'll let the mages do the work of retrieving the artefact and take it from them as needed. Who knows? Perhaps it will even solve our… problem._

_ I am sure that you also heard that… cry… from the Throat of the World. Everyone in Skyrim did. There is conjecture that Alduin the World-Eater, the dark side of Akatosh, has returned. Lest others encourage you to believe this is a _good_ thing, need I remind you that it is the dragon's duty to devour and then regurgitate the world? Different bodies, same torment._

_ I await your orders,_

_ Ancano_


	7. The Children of Skyrim

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**The Children of Skyrim**

Windhelm, 26th Last Seed 4E 201

Ulfric sighed, contemplating his hands. Hands that had killed a king, only to bring about the end of days. Hands that would have to kill more Nords in order to save Skyrim from the witch-elves of Alinor. Hands of a killer, a Tongue, a king.

"Ulfric!" Galmar's rough, thick voice cut through the Jarl of Windhelm's brooding; looking up, he met his huscarl's chagrined expression. "We've news from Whiterun."

"The Dragonborn hails from there," Ulfric said. Even in Windhelm, he'd felt the power of the man's Thu'um and its direction. Everyone in Skyrim had heard the Greybeards' summons.

"Son of a-"

"Before you can Shout, you first must Hear," the Stormcloak murmured sadly, recalling Arngeir's endless, patient tutoring in the intricacies of Dovahzul. "The Dragonborn is male and already his Thu'um breaks the sky."

Galmar sighed. "Well, that wasn't the news I was going to bring you. Balgruuf managed to get himself killed by a dragon. Hrongar is now Jarl of Whiterun."

_"Kul do vekah!"_ Ulfric swore, echoing his huscarl's earlier imprecation in Dovahzul. "You are certain?"

"Avulstein Grey-Mane passed on the news through Ralof." Galmar grunted and sat down without ceremony. "Poor bastard's pinned down by the Battle-Borns and the Thalmor likely have his brother Thorvald."

"Fucking Thalmor." Ulfric growled and knuckled his eyes. Gods, but he felt old and weary. Helgen had been so close, too close… Then he raised his gaze to the ceiling as a thought occurred to him.

"Dragons are not stupid beasts and it is known that many of the kings of old are descended from Dragonborn. What if they are trying to kill the Jarls because Alduin believes one of them is the Dragonborn?"

Galmar grunted again. "Maybe we'll get lucky and Hrongar, Siddgeir and Ingmund will be eaten."

"Ah, yes. If _I_ can tell he's male, so can Alduin." Ulfric knuckled his eyes again. "Do not forget that Skald, Korir and myself are also in danger."

"The Stormcloaks will die before allowing a dragon to take you from us," Galmar responded fiercely. "My Jarl, your leadership will be more crucial for Skyrim than even before."

"But what if the Dragonborn is aligned with the Imperials?" Coming from Whiterun, it was an even chance. Maybe Ulfric would be lucky and the hero of legend would be a man like Ralof: handsome, loyal, charismatic and intelligent to a certain degree but a follower.

"Then he'll become Titus Mede's heir, if the Colovian has the brains Talos gave a gnat," Jorleif, his friend and Steward, observed. "That man will do anything to keep the Empire intact, after all."

"Indeed." Ulfric accepted a mug of tea brought to him by a servant, warming his hands on the thick clay. "I… suspect that is the plan of that Aurelii woman in Winterhold."

Galmar grunted. "I can't believe you gave her a safe-pass. If she's a Blade, she'll understand military details."

"She's not Delphine. I suspect she's either a mage or a diplomat." Ulfric shrugged. "Either way, I'd rather keep an eye on her instead of force her to go underground. The First Blade herself doesn't recognise her description, but Delphine concedes she's been solo for a long time."

His huscarl nodded slowly. "I'll set Ralof to keeping track of the known Blades. He's a smart lad."

"Indeed." Ulfric drank some of his tea. "Have him find out who the Dragonborn is. He's charming enough to win the man over… and if we do that, Skyrim is won."

He settled back into the embrace of the Throne of Ysgramor. "Contact Kodlak Whitemane. While Alduin stalks the skies, we cannot push to retake our homeland overtly."

Galmar scowled. "You would make peace with the Empire?"

"Not peace, but a temporary truce. Alduin's return is by my hand, and as the Prophecy of the Dragonborn is spread, people will make connections. If I am seen as repentant and setting aside personal ambition for the good of Skyrim-"

"You look better than that damned chit Elisif," Jorleif noted.

"Yes. And it is nothing but the truth." Ulfric pinched the bridge of his nose. "Circles within circles, old friends. I never wanted this burden."

"You are the only one strong enough to bear it," Galmar told him roughly, though not without sympathy.

"You're too kind…" Ulfric stared at the mug in his hands. "Rikke rejected our overture, didn't she?"

"Of course." Galmar's voice was regretful. "She and the Foe-Reaper are… obstinate."

"I should have been more respectful to Hrafn at the Moot," Ulfric conceded. "For all his mongrel blood, he's a powerful man and a dangerous foe to have."

"Damn Norcs," Galmar grumbled.

"Agreed. But they've pinned up the southwest road to Whiterun and it would take the silver mines of Markarth itself to have the resources to winkle them out." He frowned thoughtfully. "Have the Silver-Bloods keep Igmund on his toes."

"I thought we were going to make a truce with the Empire?"

"I said we would cease _overt_ hostilities, my friend. I know it isn't the Nord way, but…"

"We need those damned mines." Galmar grunted again. It was amazing how that one sound could convey a myriad of emotions. "We need to help Dengeir too."

"Fucking Imperials." Ulfric wanted to weep at a good, honourable warrior like Dengeir getting screwed over by tactics which were disgusting even by Imperial standards. Thankfully Siddgeir was apparently such a lousy Jarl that he'd likely wind up dead and Dengeir back on the throne in a few weeks…

"We'll beat them. They're used to the soft lands of the south, not the long winters of Skyrim," Galmar promised. "Winter is cold and patient, Ulfric. Even Talos bided his time when he had to."

"True, old friend." Ulfric smiled gratefully at his huscarl and Steward. "I thank you for your counsel."

"Thank us by saving our country from the Thalmor," Jorleif responded fervently. "You are the only one who can save us."

_Not from the dragons,_ Ulfric thought grimly as he finished his tea. _Talos, let your kinsman be a true Son of Skyrim, for all our sakes…_

…

Castle Dour, Solitude

"So you're telling me that some prophesised hero of legend is going to slay Alduin – who's apparently the big black bastard who tried to kill us at Helgen – and we have to help him? Legate, what if he is a fucking Stormcloak?"

"Then Ulfric wins." Rikke, as always, was blunt. She could hear Tullius' scepticism, though she wondered how he could maintain it in the face of the Greybeards' call. But the General was a believer in empirical evidence, and until he saw the Dragonborn in action, he would remain doubtful. It was a Colovian trait.

"Not necessarily," observed Irkand Aurelius, the most soulless bastard Rikke had the displeasure of knowing. She recalled him from the Great War: a Blade turned blasphemer, a man who pimped out his own niece. But he knew covert operations like no one else. "Once Alduin is dead… the Dragonborn is no longer necessary."

"Ulfric will back off during the dragon crisis," Rikke pointed out. "He knows draconic lore like no one else except the Blades and the Greybeards. He won't want Skyrim falling into Alduin's maw."

"And no, we are _not_ going to violate whatever truce he sets up in order to defeat him," Irkand said sardonically. "'Hearts and minds', the Emperor said. We must win back the Nords with both diplomacy and strength."

"Well, where the fuck is the diplomat he sent?" Tullius demanded. "I'm well aware of my… lack of social graces. I'm the Emperor's Hammer, not a bard."

"The Emperor's sending Armaud Motierre because his first choice died in a storm off the north coast," Irkand replied bleakly. "High Rock has no issues with the Nords."

_Wonderful, a fucking Breton with eyes bigger than his mouth,_ Rikke thought sourly. Now she had a dark horse to manage on top of everything else.

Titus Mede had a Nord heir. Rikke knew of him from Hadvar, who'd told her of the boy's mother, an Aurelii with more decency than most. Given that her old commander Tolfdir had passed on word about a woman who resembled Aurelia Too-Tall washing up near Winterhold, Rikke knew that her allegiance to the Empire demanded that the Imperial heir be protected. And that met keeping his mother away from her ruthless bastard of an uncle. Thank the gods all the Legates of Skyrim answered to her…

"Fine. Rikke, you apparently know him; set up a meeting somewhere." Tullius sighed and ran a hand through close-cropped hair. "Now I get the joy of telling Elisif we're embracing her husband's killer."

"Talk to Falk Firebeard. He'll know how to handle it, sir." Rikke turned to Irkand. "Get down to Dragon Bridge. Commander Maro wants to see you."

The Redguard glared flatly at her but nodded. "Of course, Legate." With the slinking grace he'd always possessed, the former Blade left the war room, much to Rikke's relief.

"Be careful. The only reason that man isn't in the Dark Brotherhood is because he's such a prick even the Void would spit him out." Tullius' voice was weary and wary.

"Or Astrid's scared he'll take over," Rikke quipped dryly.

Tullius smirked wryly before looking at her. "Can we trust Ulfric to keep the peace? He killed his king after all."

Rikke managed a smile. "Follow the right ritual and you can get almost anything done in Skyrim."

…

Jorrvaskr, 28th Last Seed 4E 201

"About damned time some honour has been shown in this civil war."

Kodlak glared at the two Riverwood men he recalled as youths begging him to show them his sword. Once friends, now enemies, they'd been dispatched to Jorrvaskr to arrange a truce between the Imperials and Stormcloaks in the face of Oblivion itself.

Hadvar accepted the rebuke with his typical quiet stoicism but Ralof was obviously ready for a fight. Only Kodlak's quelling glare kept the rebel silent. That and Vilkas' glowering presence at the Harbinger's back.

Farkas had returned from Falkreath two days ago, cursing the new Jarl of Falkreath up and down as a cheating scum bastard – a rare occurrence for the normally gentle giant – and wearing white leather armour that he refused to explain. He'd thrown the leathers into a chest and slammed it shut, cursing the Daedra under his breath, and Kodlak wondered what was wrong. But he'd also delivered the head of the rogue werewolf to the parents, much to the Harbinger's relief. They couldn't rectify his predecessors' mistake if everyone knew what the Circle was.

"I want them both here in a week. Jarl Hrongar will allow the safe passage of the war's leaders, their huscarls, and one adviser each," Kodlak announced, tearing himself from personal problems. "Skjor and Aela will accompany each side to make sure both keep the truce."

"The Jarl of Windhelm will comply," Ralof confirmed, as Kodlak knew he would.

"And so he should. Alduin's return was fated, but Ulfric arranged the circumstances of it," Kodlak said severely.

"You agree with the Empire?" Ralof blurted, proving he had a lot to learn about being a diplomatic courier.

"I state facts that Ulfric himself has admitted," Kodlak retorted. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced was the son of a former Companion and occasionally confirmed tidbits for the Harbinger. Then he looked to Hadvar. "And what of Jarl Elisif?"

"General Tullius will make sure she does," Hadvar responded.

_Wonderful, the Empire's choice is a puppet and the Stormcloak is a regicide._ Kodlak sighed in frustration. _I need to find the woman in my dreams; I can't fix this as a werewolf._

"Then help yourself to some food; Ria and Torvar will lay out bedrolls for you," he said aloud. "The Circle needs to discuss this."

The young men nodded and bowed slightly, a gesture which annoyed Kodlak. He was no Jarl! Just an old, tired, dying man…

When they'd left his study, escorted by Vilkas, the doors to his bedroom cracked open. "If only they'd come to you before Torygg's death," the Dragonborn observed bitterly.

Kodlak gestured to the chair silently; knowing he was no king in this hall, Balgruuf sat down, his long face worn and weary. "I should not be Dragonborn," he continued. "I have no love of war."

"I would prefer a Dragonborn with no love of war than one who fancies himself another Talos," the Harbinger reassured the (former?) Jarl of Whiterun. "When it mattered, you warned the city and drew Mirmulnir to yourself to protect your people."

"A strange attitude for the Harbinger to take," Balgruuf noted. "Are not the Companions all about glory in war?"

"To a certain point. But first and foremost we are the protectors of Skyrim." Kodlak leaned back in his own seat. "What do you think of this truce?"

"It will be followed… officially." Balgruuf's voice was cynical with the long experience of a politician. "But both sides will continue to act covertly."

Kodlak chuckled in weary amusement. "Of course they will."

"But it is my duty to focus on the dragons. Hrongar is Jarl of Whiterun now." Balgruuf studied his barely callused hands. Pale and rangy, the Dragonborn would need to put on a lot more meat to go blade to claw with a dragon. But that was what the Companions were for.

For a moment, Kodlak's vision blurred and he saw Balgruuf, eyes blazing fierce and blue, a crown of dragon's teeth on his head. Then the foresight, the gift of Ysgramor to his heirs, released him and he wondered at the waking dream.

_I will not tell him,_ Kodlak decided. Balgruuf, for all his decency as a man, was still ambitious to a certain extent – and if he knew that he would be crowned again someday, it would distract him from Alduin.

_Talos, where is my successor?_ Farkas' intuition had to be correct, though he wondered at an Imperial Harbinger.

"Well, Balgruuf has been buried. Poor Idolaf." The eldest of the Battle-Born boys had died at the Western Watchtower, his resemblance to Balgruuf allowing him to be buried as the Jarl and buying the Dragonborn time to grow into his powers. Given that the Battle-Borns were bastard relations of the Jarls of Whiterun didn't hurt; Jon, the youngest and a bard, was in on the deception – it had been his idea – but Olfrid wasn't.

Now Balgruuf had shaved off his long goatee, his cheeks stubbled with the beginnings of a neat but more extensive beard, his silver-threaded golden hair worn long and loose instead of his customary side-braids. He currently wore a plain tunic and leggings, but Eorlund had set aside a plain set of banded iron armour, a matching shield and steel sword for him.

"Indeed. And Brom the whelp will be sent on missions around the kingdom." At Balgruuf's startled glance, the Harbinger grinned wolfishly. "Did you think we were just going to let you call yourself a Companion? No, you will earn the right just like any other whelp, and will be trained along with it."

The ex-Jarl obviously hadn't countered on that. "But I can Shout-"

"One word. You know one word that is barely stronger than a punch. Ulfric can disintegrate his foes with his Voice." Kodlak regarded Balgruuf grimly. "And believe me when I say I'd wager Alduin can do a lot more."

"…You're correct." Balgruuf didn't look happy about it. Too much of giving orders and not enough of learning to take them. He would have a hard time adjusting to the guidance of the Circle. Kodlak hoped he would learn the Companions had no master.

"Then on the morrow you'll report to Ria. She's not as good an archer as Aela, but she's better than you. Athis will hone your skill with one-handed weapons while Njada will teach you how to use that shield better. Farkas, when he returns from his current mission, can teach you how to wear heavy armour more comfortably." Kodlak smiled grimly at the newest whelp. "We may only have a month or so to train you before you go to the Greybeards. But in that month, we will work you to the bone to make you a warrior. Let it not be said the Companions of Jorrvaskr skimped their duty to Skyrim."

"Hrongar should have been Dragonborn, not me," Balgruuf muttered.

Kodlak sighed inwardly. _A reluctant but dutiful Dragonborn is better than the alternative,_ he reminded himself. _Even if it will be a nightmare to train him._


	8. The Road to Whiterun

Note: Thanks for reading!

…

**The Road to Whiterun**

Korvunjund, 30th Last Seed 4E 201

Farkas hated dried beans. They tasted horrible and they made him fart. But they were cheap and kept well. So he cooked them and grumbled under his breath because something had scared all the deer and bunnies away near Korvunjund.

At least the bandits who'd populated this area until his arrival had left a reasonable camp and some salted meat to spice up the beans. If a Companion knew what he was doing, he could very easily supply himself from the leavings of the scum that had sprung up in the wake of the civil war; wolves, after all, were capable of both hunting _and_ scavenging.

Kodlak had barely given him two days' rest before dispatching him to the north. The rest of the Circle had noted Farkas' increasing workload; soon the time would come when they would start asking questions. He hoped he found this green-eyed woman by then because he was a lousy liar, especially to his brother Vilkas.

_It's wrong to lie to pack,_ he thought unhappily as he stirred the bean and meat stew. _There should be no secrets._

But Skjor and Aela had vowed to keep giving the strong Companions the beast blood even as Vilkas and Kodlak vowed to end the practice and free themselves from Hircine's grip. Farkas, especially after the events in Falkreath that wound up with him receiving the Prince of Man-Beasts' favour directly, was caught in the middle. It should have been Skjor or Aela who took the job to hunt Sinding.

_They're happy bein' werewolves. But Kodlak wants to make all of us stop. Each Companion chooses his own path and honour._ Farkas sighed. He wasn't very smart and he usually followed Vilkas' lead.

A twig snapped and Farkas lifted his head, sniffing the air. _Human. Nearby._ "I know you're out there," he called out into the gathering darkness. "So you might as well come out."

"Thank the gods!" breathed a woman's throaty, Colovian-accented voice. "I'd been heading to your fire anyways."

The trees rustled, interspersed with muttered grunts and pained curses, before a figure wrapped in enough skins to start a furrier's shop emerged into the firelight. She wore old-style fur clothing: thick parka, heavy breeches, shapeless boots and mittens, a cap jammed low over her head. A bearskin backpack was strapped to her back, with everything a person needed to survive, but she carried no weapon beyond a stout stick for walking. He sniffed again and smelt fresh blood, the ozone of enchanted goods and the stale sweat of fear.

"I ain't gonna hurt you," he assured her as she neared.

"At the moment, you're less dangerous than those damned ice-things over the hill," she replied, raising a bloody hand; this close, he could see the crimson stain on her left shoulder.

"Ice wraiths. Weynon Stones attracts them for some reason." Farkas rose to his feet to help her, but she waved him off.

"It's minor, but painful." She grimaced. "I killed them, but they sliced through the furs like a knife through butter."

"Well, you're welcome to use my fire for the night if you can share watches. I'm not much of a healer-"

"I have healing potions and herbs." The firelight cast a bronze glow on her skin as she carefully removed and dropped her pack, grunting in pain. "By the way, I'm Lia. Nice to meet you."

"Farkas." He held out a meaty paw, which she gingerly shook. "Are the ice wraiths gonna come after you?"

"I killed them. Found some teeth and glands I can distil." Lia eyed the corpses of the bandits he'd piled neatly just behind a bush; no predator would come close to a werewolf as they sensed the beast inside. "Bandits?"

"Yeah." Farkas was relieved she wasn't making a fuss, though he had to wonder just how much self-preservation this woman had. She was alone and wounded with a man who'd just killed three others…

She pulled off her cap to reveal straight, shoulder-length black hair and decidedly Imperial features, but the thick turquoise stripe down the left side of her face was a Nord design. "Thank you for coming along before I did. Even at my best, I'm not able to handle two or three thugs in combat… and I am currently far from my best."

"You don't seem scared of me," Farkas observed as she unlaced her parka with a hiss of pain, revealing a thick woollen tunic stained with blood.

"I've run from a troll, three giant spiders and a pack of wolves today," she admitted candidly. "I'm wounded. If you're not as attached to the laws of hospitality as most Nords are, there's precious little I can do about it, and since I've run out of magicka calling fire on those cursed wraiths, I saw your campfire and approached you because I have little choice."

Farkas chuckled at her honesty. "Well, I offered my fire an' you've accepted, so the laws of the hearth apply."

"Thank the Eight-and-One," she breathed. "Though if Thalmor show up, you might change your tune."

The werewolf grinned. "Lots of snow here. And wolves think Altmer taste nice."

Her mouth quirked to the side while she pulled a red vial from her backpack. Grimacing, she downed it, then wiped her mouth. "Blisterwort and imp stool taste like shit."

Farkas grinned again. "I got some beans an' salted meat if you'd like."

"I've got two bottles of mead," she responded, then pursed her lips. "I, ah, need to get this tunic off to make sure the wound's healing properly."

He turned around immediately, much to her sigh of relief. "So what brings you to Skyrim, Lia?"

There was silence broken only by pained noises for a few minutes. Finally, she replied, "I came here because of King Torygg's death and what it portended."

It took Farkas a couple moments to remember she meant foretold. "The dragons," he observed.

"Yes. The dragons."

Farkas waited for the sound of rustling cloth to subside before turning back around to face Lia. She wore just a breastband with the parka wrapped around her, a bandage tied around her upper left arm. Much to his surprise, she looked rather comfortable sitting half-dressed by the fire, not shivering like a non-Nord would; as he settled down himself, he saw she was quite tall for an Imperial, which would explain the war paint.

"Thank you for being tolerant of my… requests," she told him, offering a bottle of mead. "Until recently, my life was… ah… sheltered."

Given that her hand was completely free of callus despite the wicked scar that he now noticed beneath the war paint, he could well believe it. "I'm a Companion of Jorrvaskr. It's our job to protect people."

Her face brightened. "One of the warriors of Ysgramor?"

"Yeah." He smiled at her. "You lookin' to join up or hire us?"

Her mouth quirked to the side again. "I am no warrior, though once they called me a Companion."

The werewolf blinked. They had Companions who weren't fighters in Cyrodiil? "Uh, what kind of Companion then?"

Something pained flickered in her light-coloured eyes. "I was… a high-class prostitute."

Farkas knew what a whore was. There were always some in the great cities, though only Saadia really plied her trade in Whiterun, and only when the coin was right. He'd never visited them, mostly because there were better things to spend his coin on like helping the other Companions. If he really felt like company, well… Ladies liked him and he liked them, no need for coin if they were willing to have a drink and a meal before a tumble. If not, well, there was always his hand.

"Well, that explains why some Imperial merchant got his hand broken by Aela a few years ago," he answered with a grin.

"Probably." She shrugged with studied nonchalance. "I'm scarred now, so I'm no longer a Companion."

"Umm, I'm sorry?" Farkas wasn't sure what to say, so he went with sympathy.

Lia sighed. "Thanks. I'm… not sure what to think about it. Now I need to learn how to handle people differently."

Farkas opened his mead and then opened hers for her. "So how come you're chasin' dragons if you were a whore?"

"Courtesan. Prostitute if you must be blunt." Lia's voice was edged. "But calling a Companion of Cyrodiil a whore is like calling a Companion of Jorrvaskr a thug."

If Farkas was in beast form, his ears would have flattened in shame. "Sorry," he apologised.

The edge bled out of Lia's voice. "No matter. I'm clinging to my pride because I have little else remaining."

She drank some of her mead, grimacing at the sweet-sour taste. He supposed she'd be used to wine. "Your scar's not that bad," Farkas assured her. "Lots of Nord men will like you."

"I… don't have the luxury of seeking out romance," she finally said.

Even Farkas could tell while she was being honest, she was dancing around something she didn't want to reveal. Like why she was chasing dragons. He peered at her, trying to read her face, but she kept it down like she was ashamed of her scar. "Why not?" he asked. "Because you're chasin' dragons?"

"Yes…" She sighed. "I… can't tell you much more than that. Forgive me, but there are reasons the Thalmor are after me."

"We don't like Thalmor in Whiterun. An' a dragon attacked there recently."

Her head shot up, eyes narrowing. "I knew about Helgen, but Whiterun?"

Farkas nodded. "Yeah. We lost the Jarl an' got a new one."

"Dammit!" Lia's voice was full of annoyance. "Which way does the new Jarl lean in the Civil War?"

Farkas shrugged. "I dunno. The Companions haven't taken a side." Then he smiled. "But Kodlak the Harbinger summoned everyone to Jorrvaskr so they can make peace while the dragons are around."

"Praise Dibella!" Her voice was raw with relief. "Has the Dragonborn been found?"

Farkas remembered he wasn't supposed to mention ex-Jarl Balgruuf being the Dragonborn. He kind of felt sorry for the man because he really wasn't a warrior. But for the sake of Skyrim, they'd have to make him one. "I dunno," he mumbled.

Before she could call him out on his shit lying skills, Farkas noticed the beans were ready. He dished out some for him and her; despite the narrowing of those light-coloured eyes he couldn't really figure out whether they were blue or green, she nodded and accepted the bowl. They ate silently, Lia practically inhaling the food. He got the impression she wasn't used to travelling or living on the land.

When they were done, Lia sighed. "Thank you. I apologise if I've been rude. My diplomatic skills have gone the way of my looks, it seems."

Farkas shrugged. "Don't worry. You're not as rude as my brother Vilkas can be."

"That must be pretty damned rude." Lia looked down at her hands; he noticed the right was tattooed. "I need to learn the ways of Skyrim. How honour is defined, that sort of thing."

"If you want to learn what honour is, Kodlak is the person to talk to," Farkas admitted easily, wondering what honour had to do with dragons. "Hey, can I ask you somethin'?"

"Of course!"

"What colour are your eyes? I'm tryin' to figure it out."

Lia's mouth quirked sadly. "Turquoise. As a Companion, it was my signature colour. No one else could use it."

_Kodlak said Imperial… But she's Nord-tall. And she's got the eyes. Maybe the old man didn't see everything. _"Was just curious."

"Now that, my big friend, is complete bullshit." Lia's voice was wry.

"I can't tell ya. Well, not unless you're tellin' me why you're lookin' for dragons when they'll eat you." Farkas wasn't _entirely_ stupid.

"That's… fair enough." Lia wrapped her parka about her shoulders tighter. "How do I get to Jorrvaskr? If your Kodlak has enough authority to summon two rival Jarls to him, he might be able to end this damned war."

"Kodlak has no authority. He's the Harbinger." Farkas tried to find the words to explain the concept to a woman who was used to defined ranks and authority. "He decides what's honourable for the Companions an' is a neutral person everyone can talk to. Ulfric an' Elisif came to him askin' to settle a truce an' he's told them to come to Jorrvaskr with General Tullius an' that."

"Tullius at a diplomatic meeting?" Her voice was astonished. "If the stakes weren't so high, that would be funny to watch."

Farkas grinned. _She knows this General. Maybe she's important in the Empire._ "I'm heading back to Whiterun," he admitted. "Might as well travel with me."

His mission – to wipe out some bandits – could wait a few days. Kodlak would want to meet Lia – hopefully she was the woman he foresaw, though he wasn't sure how she'd make a good Harbinger.

"Dibella full of grace, Thou art generous in Thy blessings," she murmured.

"I guess you're comin' with me," he said cheerfully.

"I will be. Thank you." Lia smiled at him, the expression grateful and relieved. "I will tell your Harbinger everything I can, I promise."

Farkas smiled. "Fair enough. I'm not that smart anyway, so he'll be able to help you better."

Lia chuckled huskily. "You're smart enough to get me to a place you obviously want me to go. Don't sell yourself short, Farkas."

He beamed at her and threw his cloak across the fire to her. "I'll take first watch. Get some sleep, okay?"

"Thank you. Wake me at midnight." Without further ado, she wrapped herself in his cloak and rolled over, gasping at the pain on her left shoulder.

He let her sleep through the night. She needed the rest more than him.


	9. Family and Honour

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. If you love playing as a Companion, get the ESF: Companion mod. Really adds to the experience. :)

Trigger warnings: Implied sexual coercion and childhood trauma.

…

**Family and Honour**

Jorrvaskr, 1st Heartfire 4E 201 (Noon)

"Keep that shield up, whelp!"

"With all respect, Njada, you too are a whelp," Balgruuf reminded the white-haired woman as he raised the iron shield used for combat training.

"At least I can fight!" the irascible Stonearm retorted, banging her own shield with a mace. "Now come at me!"

Balgruuf obeyed and as always wound flat on his arse. Njada had taken Kodlak's command to turn the Dragonborn into a warrior as an excuse to indulge her frequent fits of bad temper. If nothing else, he was learning to use a shield properly through necessity.

There wasn't a day since he arrived at Jorrvaskr that he didn't go to bed battered and bruised, bereft of dignity from the sarcastic barbs of Vilkas and his chief apprentice Njada, certain that Alduin couldn't be any worse. Sometimes he just thought about sneaking out to High Hrothgar and hoping for the best… But Irileth had only agreed to the ruse of his demise so long as he remained with the Companions.

_I had no choice, Talos forgive me._ Once it became apparent he was the Dragonborn, Balgruuf knew that both sides would compel him to make a choice, forcing his attention from the World-Eater to the stupidity of men. Damn Ulfric for his regicidal ambition and damn Tullius for being a tactless Colovian bastard. The only way the former Jarl of Whiterun could do his job was to literally fake his death.

_Poor Idolaf._ It had been the surprisingly pragmatic Jon Battle-Born who suggested using his brother's body. _"He's dead and nothing will bring him back,"_ the bard had said tersely. _"When all of this is over, we can just change the name on the tomb."_

A solid _whack_ on his shield from Njada's iron mace returned his attention to where it ought to be. "Quit wool-gathering, milk-drinker," she taunted. "At this rate, Alduin will have devoured half the world by the time you're ready to use a proper shield."

For a moment Balgruuf's vision was veiled in red, his Voice struggling to escape and show this arrogant _miil_ her place. He actually snarled, the sound low and rumbling, and stepped forward-

Only to have a bucket of ice-cold water thrown on him from above. "Keep your temper, whelp," Eorlund Grey-Mane, the greatest smith in Skyrim, advised laconically. "Your Voice is disturbing the Skyforge."

Balgruuf shook his wet head like a dog, feeling ashamed. He was a man, not a beast! But when he'd dried his eyes and looked at Njada, he saw that the whelp had become ashen-faced.

"Your eyes," she breathed. "They were… golden. And slit."

"That is why you shouldn't bully a dragon," Eorlund told her. "Brom has the soul of one. Always remember that."

"I am a man, not a beast!" Balgruuf protested.

"You are a man with a dragon's soul," Eorlund reminded him mercilessly. "Forget that, and people will die."

The smith looked down at the pair of them. "Come up here, Brom. I need someone to pump the bellows for me while I work the metal."

Balgruuf nodded, gladly divesting himself of iron sword and shield on one of the many racks located in the courtyard. Njada allowed it without a complaint, still shaken by the revelation of the dragon within him. Come to think of it, the former Jarl himself was disturbed.

Halfway to the Skyforge, he saw the warrior Farkas, a gentle giant with the kindest eyes he'd ever seen, walking towards the mead-hall accompanied by a woman clad in furs more suitable for midwinter than the lingering vestiges of summer. If it wasn't for her height, he'd assume she was Imperial with her colouring, though Vignar Grey-Mane was rather dark thanks to a dose of Redguard ancestry from his maternal grandfather. The member of the Circle, the senior warriors in the Companions, raised his hand in greeting and changed direction to meet Balgruuf.

"Shouldn't you be trainin' with Njada, whelp?" Farkas rumbled, but not unkindly.

"Shouldn't you be killing bandits?" Balgruuf retorted, then winced at back-chatting one of his instructors. If he'd done that to his weapons' teacher as a child-

"Something came up." Farkas smiled at the Dragonborn as the woman neared them. Up close, she was beautiful: slanted turquoise eyes, a chiselled Nord face with an Imperially aquiline nose, and a vertical smear of war paint that matched her gaze and almost concealed the wicked scar on her left cheek. "This is Lia. She'll be stayin' with us for a bit. I dunno if it'll be as a whelp or helpin' Tilma; up to Kodlak."

She offered her fur-mittened right hand and he clasped it briefly. "B-Brom," he stuttered, forcing himself to remember the name given to him by Kodlak, whose ancient library contained references to the Dragonborn. _"Dovahsebrom, Dragon of the North…"_

Her eyes widened and she bowed deeply, holding the position for a full ten seconds as Farkas stared at her. "Dovahkiin," she murmured reverently.

Farkas looked a little panicky. "I didn't say anythin'!" the warrior protested as Lia straightened up.

"You didn't need to. One, his body language and stutter indicated that his name is an assumed one. Two… Well, you'd better pick another alias. Brom is short for one of the ancient titles of Ysmir and Talos." Lia's voice was reverent, respectful, as she looked at Balgruuf. He'd never seen _that_ kind of expression directed his way, not even as Jarl.

"Dragonborn or not, he's still a whelp here," Farkas told her. "So no bowin' an' scrapin', Lia. That shit's good for a Jarl's footstool, not a Companion."

"Well pardon me for being grateful Akatosh hasn't given up on us yet," Lia retorted a little sarcastically.

"Farkas is right, my lady," Balgruuf told her. "There are reasons why I'm using another name."

"Whelp! Get your arse up here!" Eorlund's bellow could probably be heard by the Greybeards.

"See what I mean?" Farkas grinned.

"…I do." Lia looked both intrigued and concerned.

Balgruuf smiled at her. "I'll see you at dinner, I hope."

"If you don't get to Eorlund soon, you won't get any," Farkas growled.

For the first time since Mirmulnir's attack, Balgruuf grinned. The dragon in him had been appeased by her show of respect… and the man was admittedly pleased by her beauty. _I pray she isn't the sort to find me attractive just because I'm the Dragonborn,_ he thought as he hurried towards the steps.

Eorlund had been looking over the ledge; he turned away, hammer held easily in hand, and gestured to the chain which worked the bellows. "Match the pull to your breathing," he commanded. "Too fast, you'll melt the metal; too cold, it will harden and be unable to be shaped."

Balgruuf obeyed as the smith resumed hammering. It was easy, albeit tedious. "Do you know who that woman is?" he asked.

"Alternate between arms without losing your rhythm. It will strengthen them." Eorlund hammered the steel arrowheads Aela used with the same concentration as he had when forging Balgruuf's Skyforged Steel plate. "I don't know _who_ she is, but I know _what_ she is."

"What's that?"

"A Blade. One of the guards of the Septim emperors." Eorlund nodded in satisfaction and quenched an arrowhead. "Surprised the Thalmor left any alive."

"How do you know she's a Blade?" Even he recalled the stories of the legendary protectors of the Septims, descended from the fierce Akaviri invaders of old.

"The way she ties her sword-belt. Back in the day, the Grey-Manes forged a lot of steel for the Blades. We learned to recognise them, even in disguise." Balgruuf was surprised Eorlund was capable of saying so much. "Before Tiber Septim, they served the Reman Dragonborn Emperors."

"She doesn't look old enough to have fought in the Great War." Balgruuf switched arms as Eorlund commanded.

"True. Her parents probably trained her, as my father did me." Eorlund made another arrowhead. "Come to me when you feel the dragon rising. It will feel better near the heat and the work will calm you."

"How do you know so much about Dragonborn?" Balgruuf asked.

"Since the time the Companions came to Skyrim and discovered the Skyforge, a Grey-Mane has worked the steel," Eorlund replied. "You aren't the first Dragonborn to have joined the Companions."

Recalling the prophecy Farengar had read out to him as he recovered from the fight with Mirmulnir, Balgruuf grunted. "No, but I will be the last."

"That's for the gods to decide- Dammit! Pay attention to the bellows. You ruined an arrow!"

Chastened, Balgruuf obeyed. _So, a Blade, sworn to serve Dragonborn… She can probably cut me into collops without breaking a sweat. Good thing, because Njada is right. Alduin will have feasted on half the world before I am ready to face him._

…

"So, a Blade has come to our halls."

"Say it louder. They didn't hear you in Alinor," Lia responded dryly to the sturdy but sick-looking old man who called himself Kodlak Whitemane, Harbinger of the Companions.

"Even if you had not been rather too freely spoken about it in Winterhold, there are a half-dozen signs that proclaim your status to those who know what to look for." Kodlak gestured to her eyes, her belt, and even the way she'd sheathed her dagger. "I fought in the Great War, as did Skjor. We know an Aurelii Blade when we see one."

Farkas had exited at the old man's request, leaving her alone with a Nord who was probably a diplomat equal to Armaud Motierre. She could see why Kodlak was respected throughout the Holds, and not just because of his age; there was a quiet wisdom, tempered by sorrow and experience, in his tired gaze. "I… had to talk quickly in Winterhold," she finally confessed. "Ulfric Stormcloak was there and…"

How much did she dare to tell him?

_You told Farkas you'd tell Kodlak everything. So tell him _everything.

_But he could be on the side of the Stormcloaks!_ her Court-trained side pointed out.

_He commands the Dragonborn. Best be honest with him._

"My parents were Blades, and I'd just begun training when Cloud Ruler fell," she finally admitted. "But… I'm not really a Blade. My full name is… Aurelia Too-Tall and… I am an Imperial Consort. The Emperor sent me here to help General Tullius diplomatically… and someone sent a storm, wrecked my ship. I… wound up in Winterhold because a couple mages saved me and…"

Much to her shame, she lost dignitas and burst into tears, great wracking sobs that probably had everyone who heard her assuming she was a milk-drinker as the Nords liked to call cowards. Kodlak simply waited, his presence sympathetic and silence, until she regained herself. Ashamed, she wiped her eyes and looked up at the Harbinger, whose expression was compassionate.

"I have a son, back in Cyrodiil. He probably thinks I'm dead now." Her voice was bleak as she revealed all her fears. "If the Empire fails, Martin will be the first to be killed by the Thalmor. If Alduin wins…" She choked down another sob. "We all die."

"Heavy burdens for one so young," Kodlak noted gently. "I assume Martin is the Emperor's son?"

"Of course! I was… not permitted to bear anyone else a child, even if I was to… entertain them… at the Emperor's command." Lia closed her eyes, despair settling on her shoulders like an over-heavy yoke. "Now my face is scarred and I don't know how I'm going to help the Emperor win this war because my skills are all based on my beauty and-"

"You are intelligent, perceptive and wilful enough to survive a shipwreck in enemy territory," Kodlak interrupted her. "You are a mother whose love for her son is apparent. And you know enough to recognise the Dragonborn on sight. These things transcend beauty."

Lia wiped at her eyes, smearing the war paint. "I have a mission from the Emperor to end this war, preferably without pissing off Skyrim more than it is."

"Alduin takes precedence. The Companions are not dissimilar to the Fighters' Guild you know in Cyrodiil, but we have always been dedicated to protecting Skyrim. Ulfric and Elisif are coming here to make a truce until the World-Eater is dead. It will… _overtly_ hold." Kodlak's voice was rueful and Lia managed a chuckle. Neutral or not, the Harbinger knew politics.

"So what should I do?" she asked.

"Do what you believe to be honourable." Kodlak leaned forward and poured her a cup of Alto wine, which she accepted gratefully. While she was getting used to mead, she preferred a good Colovian red. "I bet you're already thinking about how the Dragonborn can be used to further the Imperial cause."

"Not… the Imperial cause. But to… protect the Empire." Aurelia raised her eyes to meet Kodlak's unflinchingly. "The Thalmor will return. Already Ulfric plays into their hands with the rebellion. While Skyrim bleeds, the Empire weakens."

"There are those in the Empire – even in Skyrim – who believe the White-Gold Concordat ended hostilities between mer and men," Kodlak observed.

"Some of those are in Thalmor pockets and the rest are too stupid to live," she pointed out. "It will be my son – or maybe his – who will face the Thalmor."

"All of our children and grandchildren will fight the goldskins again," Kodlak reminded her. "I know you love Martin dearly, but there are other mothers who weep in Skyrim because their children were taken away simply for worshipping Talos."

Lia sighed. "And what Skyrim is going through now, Cyrodiil has endured for two decades. The Empire forbade the _overt_ worship of Talos but ignored private shrines-"

"Talos is the hero-god of mankind, the Stormcrown, Skyrim's greatest legend outside of Ysmir." The Harbinger was kind but relentless. "How would _you_ feel if the Thalmor were to pull down the brass dragon statue of Martin Septim?"

Lia's fist tightened around the ceramic cup. _"They did,"_ she snarled. "In my sixteenth year, it was pulled down. Even though it was dedicated to Akatosh instead of Talos, it was destroyed as part of the White-Gold Concordat."

_And two years later, Martin was born and named…_ Lia knew that Titus had reasons other than lust to choose her as Consort. Martin, named for the greatest of the Septim emperors, Nord by blood and Blade by ancestry… It would fall to him, if he survived, to be a living symbol of defiance against the Thalmor…

Titus knew he'd not live to see the reaping of the harvest he'd sown. But he was doing his best to see everything put into place.

"I survived Bruma. Cloud Ruler. Being whored around by the father of my child. _Because the Empire demanded it._ I know I've got no chance of seeing Sovngarde. But what is one woman's life and honour when compared to that of an Empire?"

Kodlak remained silent as she unloaded the doubts, grief, rage and tears of the past ten years. "Cyrodiil has endured war and unofficial occupation for twenty-five years. We signed a treaty to buy us time to recover, so we could – quite frankly – breed up a new generation of soldiers to fight the Thalmor. Humanity and the Orcs breed faster and more often than the Altmer. But the Thalmor have played Skyrim like a lute, knowing that as soon as their 'honour' gets the teeniest bit insulted, they'll turn on the Empire and weaken them. They're laughing in Alinor. Laughing and toasting the demise of humanity."

When she ran out of words, the Harbinger spoke. "Skyrim is the homeland of mankind, Aurelia. Talos is the keystone of this Age. If both fall, the world is doomed."

"So why the hell can't you people just worship quietly so we can recover?" Lia wiped tears of rage and grief from her eyes. "I don't deny the divinity of Talos. But Ulfric's little regicide triggered Alduin's return and-"

"That is something he is well aware of, hence his desire for a truce." Kodlak paused significantly and added, "He was the first to request one."

The Harbinger leaned forward and took her hands in his own. "In your words, I hear the fears and doubt of Titus Mede himself, Aurelia. This is a good thing, as it will allow me to understand the Imperial perspective when the truce is negotiated. But beyond a mother's fear for her son and the mourning of lost beauty, I hear only the voice of a woman who has been so traumatised by her experiences she doesn't know who she is."

He squeezed her hands gently. "Set aside the will of Titus Mede and aid the Dragonborn. He will need Shield-Siblings to whom he can trust his back."

It took Lia a moment to gather her scrambled wits. "Wait, what?"

Kodlak smiled… or perhaps more accurately smirked. "There's a certain strength of spirit in you. Companions – even Harbingers – have come from worse backgrounds than yours. So train with the Companions, learn the ways of honour and family, and find yourself."

Lia stared at him. "Are you senile? I'm the lousiest fighter in Tamriel!"

"Vilkas will be the judge of that." He raised his voice to call for the Companion, who Lia recalled was Farkas' grumpy brother; he looked like a sour-faced cat she recalled from her childhood, down to the black marks around his eyes. "Take this woman and test her arm."

"…You have got to be kidding me." His voice was both surly and incredulous. "Brom, at least, has some training. But a whore-?"

_Okay, fuck you._ "As I explained to your brother, who's obviously the brains of the family, calling a Companion of Cyrodiil a whore is like calling a Companion of Jorrvaskr a thug," she told him icily. "I spent my life from fourteen to eighteen learning how to please another person, in and out of bed, and that doesn't include the lessons in literacy, numeracy, history and diplomacy every Aurelii woman receives."

"She's young, reasonably fit and healthy," Kodlak added with studied blandness as Vilkas' jaw dropped, probably at being called stupider than Farkas. "I just need you to test her arm. Aela can do the rest."

"Fine." Vilkas' cold grey glare promised no mercy. "Let's get this over and done with. I have more important things to do."

_Wait, shit, did I just agree to join the Fighters' Guild of Skyrim?_ But it was too late to back out now. Reluctantly, Lia finished her wine and stood up. Time to get her arse kicked for the greater good.


	10. Dragon-Born and Doom-Driven

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**Dragon-Born and Doom-Driven**

Jorrvaskr, 1st Heartfire 4E 201 (Mid-Afternoon)

"Azura's tits, that's just painful."

Given that Vilkas had just shield-bashed a prospective Companion trainee to the ground, Irileth concurred with Athis even if his casual blasphemy concerned her. The Goddess of Twilight was not one whose name should be taken lightly, as well the Dunmer huscarl knew. She thumbed her ring and looked around for Balgruuf amidst the crowd of whelps and bored Whiterun citizens; he stood at the back, a goat-horned iron helmet concealing most of his long face and a fine golden beard hiding his square chin. It wasn't yet common knowledge that the Dragonborn was training with the Companions, but Irileth was already preparing for the worst.

"It took _me_ three attempts to earn a place in Jorrvaskr," Ria observed cheerfully.

"She's been knocked down four times. I don't know why she just doesn't give up." Torvar scratched his bearded chin. "Maybe she's drunk."

"You'd be the expert on that," Athis pointed out sardonically.

The would-be Companion, a bronze-skinned Imperial woman, lay flat on her back gasping for breath as Vilkas neared. "You've taken more hits than I thought you would," the weaponsmaster of the Companions conceded grudgingly. "Just yield so you can see a healer."

Obviously intelligence wasn't this woman's strong point as she struggled to her feet, licking blood and dirt from a split lip and spitting it out. "No," she insisted.

Irileth could imagine the collective eye-rolling of the crowd. Her grip on the sword and shield was so incorrect it was painful. Even when less battered, she couldn't hold a basic shieldman's stance for shit. If the Dunmer didn't know better, she'd swear the woman was trying to go to Sovngarde via Companion.

"Are you fucking insane?" Vilkas asked bluntly.

"Probably. I was hit on the head recently." The woman unbuckled her shield and dropped it to the ground, rolling her left shoulder with a wince. The turquoise stripe painted down the side of her face was smeared with blood, sweat and dust.

"So _that's_ the reason," Torvar muttered, taking a swig of mead.

"Look, I know Kodlak thinks there's something in you, but he's also old." Vilkas' voice was as close to compassionate as he could manage. "If you really want to work for the Companions, Tilma's getting old and would probably appreciate the help. Or you could turn those skills you boasted about earlier to entertaining us-"

Vilkas was standing with his feet set apart in a deceptively casual shieldman's pose, though Irileth knew he preferred the powerful two-handed swords like his brother Farkas. He was lightly armoured, only wearing a breastplate in the heat of late summer, as someone who could barely pick up a sword could hardly be dangerous enough to injure him. His expression was both smug and exasperated with the stubborn female before him.

The weaponsmaster didn't even get to finish his sentence, as the Imperial woman closed in and lifted her knee with brutal force into his groin. The _crunch_ was audible; Vilkas could do little more than squeak in pain as every male in the courtyard, from Balgruuf to Farkas, winced but for one – Torvar actually cried.

She staggered back, dropping her sword, watching Vilkas crumple to the ground into a foetal ball. "I told you to stop comparing a Cyrodiil Companion to a whore," she mumbled before collapsing in a heap.

"Does that count as a fair blow?" Irileth overheard Skjor ask Aela.

"She took four hits from Vilkas and got up every time," the Huntress responded. "And still managed to hit him. Vilkas deliberately set her up with equipment that didn't suit her. It's not a _usual_ bout, but…"

Skjor grunted. "More your style then?"

"I believe so." The only female member of the Circle shoved back her red hair. "We're having disagreements with the old man, but he's never been wrong about people. I say we give her a chance."

_There's conflict in the Circle? Interesting…_ Irileth narrowed her eyes as the duo looked to Farkas.

"She's an adult. She killed three ice wraiths; I met her after the battle," the big warrior said. "I'm with Aela."

"Well, that makes three. I'll reserve judgment until I see her in action." Skjor walked over to the prone woman and peeled back an eyelid. "She'll wake up. Brom, take her to the whelps' chamber and dump her on a spare bed."

Irileth could see Balgruuf's jaw tense at the casual command, but he obeyed, picking up the Imperial gently. Skjor nodded in satisfaction and turned to the crowd. "Show's over. Whelps, clean up this mess. Farkas, help your brother to his bed."

She wanted to go speak to her friend, who was now as dragon-born and doom-driven as she'd once been, but dared not. If she broke his cover…

_Azura, why do You make my careless jests portents of things to come?_ she asked of the goddess. But as always, no reply was forthcoming. Not since Morrowind had the Daedra spoken to her. Would that She never had.

…

Lia moaned as someone wiped her face with a damp cloth, feeling dirt and grit and mushroom paste be removed at the expense of bruised flesh hurting more. It was immediately removed, and she gingerly opened her eyes – well, the left one because the right was swollen shut from the first time she'd collided with the ground. But she had no double vision and the only thing making her head ache was the facial bruising.

The Dragonborn was looking down at her, light blue eyes concerned. "Vilkas gave you quite a beating," he observed in that resonant, richly accented tenor, voice little more than a whisper. "Did you let him beat you to conceal your skill, Blade?"

She chuckled weakly, the sound ending in a pained gasp. "No. I'm that lousy a fighter. I only got lucky because he'd let his guard down and I was… well… pissed at him."

"Vilkas has that effect on people," he noted dryly. "Hold still, I know a little healing magic."

Golden warmth rushed through her body, harsh and imprecise but easing the pain to a bearable level. Brom helped her to sit up; he'd removed his helmet, the one that hid most of his face, to reveal strong features etched with deep worry lines and a shoulder-length fall of platinum-blond hair. "Eorlund and probably Skjor figured out what you are," he explained softly. "The Thalmor have no friends here, so you will be fairly safe."

"If you're hoping for a dragonslayer of legend to aid you, you're looking at the wrong woman," Lia confessed. "I don't even know if any of the real Blades from the Great War are alive, though Ulfric mentioned someone called Delphine."

His eyes narrowed. "I knew that woman was more than she seemed… So, you've met the king-killer then?"

"We were in Winterhold at the same time." She sighed, remembering Kodlak's words. "I had to bullshit, to pretend I was a Blade like my parents, because…"

"I knew it!" Athis' voice was triumphant; Lia and Brom gave him startled, worried glances and the Dunmer grinned. "You're a Blade. No wonder Vilkas kicked you around the yard – most of you fight with a katana or dai-katana."

The grey-skinned mer wandered over to a bed, blood-red eyes gleaming in satisfaction. "I'll keep it to myself, don't you worry. Most of the others have big mouths and small brains."

"Yet Njada uses you as a punching bag nearly every day," Brom drawled, recovering himself with admirable swiftness. Whoever he'd been before becoming Dragonborn, Lia suspected diplomacy had been part of his life.

The Dunmer smirked. "Most of those blows glance off me. If letting her think she beats the hell out of me makes her feel better and the rest of our lives easier, then momentarily humiliation is worth a greater victory in the end."

Lia chuckled, then winced again. "Dibella's mercy, I hurt."

"You took four of Vilkas' blows and kept on getting up. While he's not as good with a shield as Njada, most people stay down after the first or second," Athis told her. "Be proud of yourself."

"I'll do that when I stop hurting so much…"

A perky Imperial woman trotted into the room, followed by a red-cheeked Nord man. "It's wonderful to have another Colovian around here!" she chirped. "Welcome to Jorrvaskr!"

Lia raised her hand in an Imperial salute. "I'm Lia," she told the woman.

The whelp – whose accent was Cheydinhal – grinned. "I'm Ria!"

"Varia or Maria?" Lia asked in Colovian.

"Varia Nona," Ria admitted with a grimace. "You're from Bruma, so that makes you… Aurelia?"

"Yeah."

"Oh dear." The ninth daughter of Clan Varius smiled sympathetically. "Hey, you'll be the next Northstar."

"I _hope_ not. She was big, ugly and a surly drunk."

Ria burst out laughing. "The legends never said that!"

"We Aurelii _never_ view our ancestors as shining paragons."

"Northstar?" Brom revealed his knowledge of Colovian, though his accent was… not as pleasant as it was in Nord.

"The Hero of Kvatch, Champion of Cyrodiil, Grand Champion of the Arena and Grand Master of the Blades after Jauffre's death," Ria explained in Nord. "She's something of a role model for women who want to be warriors."

"She was also Nord, something the common legends don't state," Lia added. "My great-great-grandmother on my father's side."

"Ah. The Aurelii take advantage of Colovian clan inheritance being on the father's side but race coming from the mother." Brom raked a hand through his messy hair as Lia wondered how the hell he knew _that_. True, she hadn't been shy about admitting her heritage, but part of her clan's strength was that they didn't _look_ Imperial. How well known was it outside of Cyrodiil?

Ria glanced at her. "Are you going to share your cognomen?" she asked cheerfully.

Lia winced. "No. Just… no. I came here to escape it." Which wasn't exactly a lie…

"We can give each other new names!" If Lia didn't already know kaf was rare in Skyrim, she'd swear the Cheydinhal girl had drunk a few pints of the stuff, she was so eager and jumpy.

"Enough!" Brom's bark startled everyone, earning him a wounded-puppy look from Ria, a smirk from Athis and a confused glance from Torvar. "She's hurt despite my healing spell. Leave her alone, yeah? She's not going anywhere."

_Thank you,_ she thought to the Dragonborn. She really wasn't up to dealing with Ria's enthusiasm, though she certainly didn't want to offend her most likely ally in this place. Instead she lay back down and rolled over, pointedly presenting her back to the others.

She could think about the latest bizarre direction her life had taken her tomorrow.

…

"I… didn't expect her to be so… inept."

Balgruuf was having a quick bite to eat when he heard Kodlak's confession to Farkas. Given that quite a bit of mystery surrounded the woman, his metaphorical ears pricked up and he eavesdropped for all he was worth.

"She was just fightin' the wrong way for her, Aela says," the Companion who'd brought in Lia reassured the Harbinger. "She the one you dreamt of?"

"…Yes." Kodlak sighed. "She's stronger than she looks, Farkas, and has endured more than Vilkas and the others know. I think she can be trusted to watch Brom's back when he leaves the walls of Jorrvaskr."

"I'll go with them," the gentle giant offered. "Vilkas is too bad-tempered an' neither Aela nor Skjor will be able to go where they'll have to. But I'm big an' dumb, so everyone else will assume I'm just the muscle."

"You're more intelligent than people give you credit for," Kodlak said chidingly. "But you are the first member of the Circle I'd trust with their safety."

"If not me, then send Athis an' Ria," Farkas advised. "The former knows Lia's a Blade an'the latter comes from the same place. Both of them are smarter an' steadier than Njada or Torvar too, so they won't piss off Brom an' make him go dragon."

"Heard about that, did you?" Kodlak sighed again. "The Chronicles of the Harbingers are terse about the Dragonborn who joined our ranks in ages past. You're the most perceptive of the Circle, Farkas: do we have a month or so to train him or should we send him to High Hrothgar now?"

Balgruuf heard the creak of Farkas' armour as he shifted in the chair. "I think Brom's good enough to send on a few minor jobs. It'll look strange if we keep him cooped up like a hen hidin' from a fox."

"…True." Kodlak grunted in pain as he moved. The Harbinger was sick and dying; why had he dreamed of Lia? "I'll have Aela give Lia extensive archery lessons and have Athis teach her dagger. You focus on helping Brom handle the heavy armour without becoming encumbered. He's a lousy archer."

"You know Irileth will probably follow us to Ivarstead," Farkas observed. "She's been watchin'."

"Of course she has. And allow her to join you once Brom has left Whiterun. She… will be more help to him, to handle the strain of living under a prophecy, more than you know."

_"You and I, we are dragon-born and doom-driven,"_ Irileth had told him the day he woke up after fighting Mirmulnir. _"I will aid you the best I can, my friend."_

_ "With support such as yours, Irileth, I cannot fail."_

_ "Prophecies are promises, not guarantees."_

"Send Brom out over the next few days. If Ulfric and Elisif see him…"

"Stupid war."

"It's more foolish than you know." Kodlak grunted in pain once more. "And both sides have their points."

It was Farkas who sighed this time. "If we're to win, I might have to…"

"…Only if you must. But remember, if you die before we find a cure…"

"Heh. Hircine likes me already."

_Hircine? The Daedra? What the hell is going on?_ Balgruuf rose to his feet quickly as Kodlak and Farkas exchanged farewells, not wanting to get caught eavesdropping. He didn't know the Harbinger dreamed of things to come or that the Companions had a connection to Hircine – though it explained the wolf-armour.

Now that night had fallen, most of the other whelps were in the feasting hall with the Circle. Lia's slow, even breathing indicated that she was sleeping, though her fidgeting and mumbling indicated it was uneasy.

_There is something there, something I should understand. I have the pieces of a broken mirror, something I can almost put together, but the cracks distort the image…_ He sighed. Whatever secret she was hiding, he hoped it wasn't a dangerous one.

At least Irileth would be there to aid him. He honestly felt naked without her at his side and back. He felt helpless without his robes and circlet. But the Jarl of Whiterun couldn't be the Dragonborn. Not when a civil war raged.

_Hrongar, please don't let my city die. I know you will stand with the Empire, but…_ He buried his face in his hands. Why had the gods chosen the man least suited to being Dragonborn as their champion against Alduin?

It was a long, troubling night as he sat paralysed by his doubts. And come the dawn, he and Athis were dispatched to the Rift to do some predator killing.


	11. Homecoming

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Again, sorry for the emphasis on the Aurelii; I wanted to update the Irkand situation. Next chapter will have next to no Aurelii but plenty of shenanigans!

…

**Homecoming**

The Blue Palace, Solitude, 3rd Heartfire 4E 201

No matter the land, provincial courts were always a hotbed of petty intrigue that would wind up crippling something greater, like a spot of unnoticed rust that would snap a portion of lamellar armour. Irkand knew a Blade like that, killed during a sparring match with a blunted naginata that caved in one critical section, metal shards piercing the gut and leaving the victim to die screaming from an infected wound. Sometimes it was an accident; sometimes it was intentional. With the court of Jarl Elisif, there were idiots capable of both.

"Who the hell does this Kodlak Whitemane think he is?" demanded General Tullius.

"The Harbinger of the Companions," Rikke replied wearily. "Given he was approached by both sides of the war, he has the right to issue a summons and set the terms. Short of invading High Hrothgar, Jorrvaskr's the closest we'll get to neutral ground in Skyrim."

"So is the Blue Palace but it didn't stop Ulfric from murdering King Torygg," observed Erikur, a Thane who was more friendly than he should be with the Thalmor.

"There's a difference between a sanctioned but unequal duel and trying to cause trouble n Jorrvaskr," his rival Bryling retorted. "If Ulfric attempts violence in Jorrvaskr, his life is forfeit."

"And the Companions have killed Tongues before," Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, confirmed. "If the Jarl _doesn't_ go, she proves herself a coward and relinquishes her claim in favour of Ulfric by default."

"I thought you said this would be a good idea," Tullius muttered to Rikke.

"It _is_. Elisif must be seen as her own woman, not a puppet of the Empire."

_Good luck with that,_ Irkand thought sardonically. So far the redhead remained silent on her throne, letting her advisers make the decisions for her.

He wanted to be far away from this place with its cold stone and bitter memories. Perhaps back in Cloud Ruler, where all he had to worry about was practice, meditation and being told who to kill and where. Or even in the nomadic years after the Fall of the Blades, trying to find his niece and reuniting the remnants of the Aurelii. He'd never been ambitious; while he didn't mind leadership, he preferred set routines and defined boundaries, not messy politics and idiots with too much power.

_Poor Aurelia. Martin must be devastated._ On the few times he'd been allowed to interact with the Imperial bastard, Irkand had noted the boy was a true Aurelii: lithe, smart and quick with a knack for creatively interpreting rules and orders. His niece had shared with him what Nord ways she knew, much to Titus' displeasure, and the boy had devoured such scraps.

He forced himself away from brooding and to focus on the petty court intrigue. Despite certain decisions he'd reached concerning leadership, the Empire needed to remain strong and united, and that meant stopping Skyrim imploding due to sheer stupidity. He may have lost his niece, but he had a grand-nephew to protect.

"Ah, Irkand. How lovely to see you."

The precise, haughty accent gave Elenwen's voice away even before he sensed the crackle of magicka around her. That and she was speaking Altmeris.

"Hello, Elenwen. Did that lung-wound heal?"

The interrogator's voice turned brittle. "No. You were really quite professional."

"Not professional enough. You're still breathing." Irkand turned away from the drama below to regard the Altmer flatly. "Here to gloat about my niece's death?"

"I respect you too much for that. Besides, your niece was one of the few people who could brew a decent goldenflower tea. Her loss makes the world a bleaker place." Elenwen sounded almost sincere.

"You know, if the world ends, you won't get your goldenflower tea," Irkand pointed out sardonically.

"The return of primordial divinity will be bliss enough," Elenwen countered. "I honestly don't know why more people won't help us. Flesh is nothing but pain and grief."

"Oh, I don't know. I derive a certain amount of pleasure from seeing scarlet on gold." Irkand smiled mirthlessly at the Ambassador. "Well played with Ulfric."

"Nords are animals. Condition them well and they'll do whatever you want with the right cues."

"Gods, you're not even pretending with me."

"As I said, I respect you far too much for that." Elenwen actually sounded sincere this time. "Few mortals manage to be irritating enough to destroy every death squad sent after them."

"Haven't killed Delphine yet, have you?"

"I'll find her."

"Good luck with that. She's more ruthless and heartless than I." Irkand grinned darkly at the Thalmor. "It must be annoying you to know that the Dragonborn's returned."

He had the pleasure of seeing her eyes darken from gold to marigold in frustration. "Nothing we can't handle. I'm surprised you haven't gone looking for him."

"I meant what I said when I renounced Talos. He is a false god who ignored the pleas of his followers."

"Do you believe in anything, Irkand?"

"I believe in death and steel." He pulled back the flap of his Alik'r robe to reveal his dagger. "Or ebony, in my case."

"Oh my… That's Naarifin's dagger."

"I took it from his cold corpse." Irkand smiled as the Ambassador blinked. "You should pray to the Aedra while you still can, Elenwen, because I have no human attachments anymore."

"Are you threatening me? That is a direct violation of the White-Gold Concordat!"

Irkand smiled his most terrible smile, the tender mocking one that once made a Thalmor Lord piss himself before death. "It's not a threat, but a promise."

Elenwen muttered a farewell and left hastily. Irkand grinned in her wake. _That should discomfort her for the next few weeks…_

Unbeknownst to him, someone else watched with unblinking eyes, greatly interested in what transpired.

…

The Winking Skeever

Astrid sipped from her flagon daintily as Veezara, happily playing the Argonian servant, cut up the roast venison she'd ordered for their dinner. The Shadowscale was wonderfully loyal and devoted to his Family in general and her as Speaker in particular. Only Arnbjorn was more trusted and beloved.

"So a man named Irkand literally scared the Thalmor Ambassador into running away?" She dabbed at her mouth delicately, smiling at the assassin as he deposited a piece of rare meat onto her husband's plate. Arnbjorn preferred to hunt his meals, but indulged his wife's passion for fine cooking whenever they were in the city.

"I saw his smile. It held the promise of the Void in it." Veezara dipped his head submissively. "He has no attachments and if I understand the implications of his conversation with Elenwen, he was a Blade."

"Pfft. Blades are popping up everywhere with the return of the Dragonborn," Arnbjorn pointed out as he picked up his meat and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing unhappily. Astrid loved her husband dearly, but it certainly wasn't for his table manners.

"Hush, dear. Veezara wouldn't have delivered this news if it wasn't important."

"I would rather have him on our side instead of against us," the Argonian admitted softly. "Especially with the outsider coming to our Sanctuary."

Astrid pursed her lips. She didn't know why she'd answered Cicero's letters when it would be better if he and that stinking corpse were lost forever. "I'll keep it in mind," she said softly. "But we three have a job to complete that takes priority."

…

Erikur's naked corpse swung gently from the roof-beam of his house, indicating that he'd indulged in a foolish pastime followed by jaded courtiers who'd done just about anything else. He really shouldn't have gone to Elenwen's parties, as they tended to ruin a person's enjoyment of themselves.

"Sonuvabitch!" growled the big, white-haired Nord who'd been hired as a servant last night after his predecessor had been delivered to the Thalmor as a Talos worshipper. "Someone took our kill!"

"Say it a little louder. I don't think they heard you in Castle Dour," observed the beautiful blonde Nord with a voice of poison and honey. Unlike the big idiot, she wore black and maroon leathers that clung to a statuesque body that left nothing to the imagination.

_So, the Dark Brotherhood still exists…_ Irkand chuckled inwardly. He'd heard rumours, but after the ruin of Bravil had thought them all wiped out but for the mad jester Cicero.

The big Nord sniffed and growled again. "I know you're there," he said. "Come out, killer."

Irkand kept himself hidden but spoke. "Takes one to know one."

An Argonian, clad as a servant, entered the room with blood on his knife. "Irkand?"

"How do you know my name?"

"I overheard you scaring the piss out of the Ambassador. It seems that Sithis meant for us to meet." The lizard-man looked around carefully. "I know you're in the wardrobe. I see your body heat."

The former Blade sighed and emerged from Erikur's wardrobe, which stank of lavender and old sweat. "I do hope you're not looking to kill me. It would be awkward for everyone."

The beautiful woman chuckled and he reminded his body that now was not the time to like what he heard. "Well, Erikur's death _was_ meant for us, so you owe Sithis a murder."

"Time. Place. Method. Victim." Irkand kept his voice clipped. "My only request is that it's not someone crucial to the Empire like Tullius. I _am_ a patriot."

"That's reasonable enough," the woman agreed as the big hairy bastard hovered over her possessively. "Erikur was a small but offensive fish in the pond. A minor contract."

The Nord man grinned ferally down at the Redguard. "There's an old woman called Grelod the Kind in Riften. She's so evil a kid at the orphanage wants her dead. Should be about your level of skill."

"Arnbjorn!" The woman sighed irritably and looked apologetically to Irkand. "I'm sorry. My husband can be difficult."

Irkand bared his teeth in what might be called a smile. "Of course. The hairier the Nord male, the more… difficult… he can be."

_Just say the word and you'll be rid of him, my dear…_ Irkand could tell by Astrid and Veezara's body language they were interested in recruiting him. Given that Aurelia's death had removed any personal attachments beyond a distant affection for her son, perhaps the Dark Brotherhood would give him the order and structure he craved. He'd focused for so long on his family that he'd forgotten his own needs.

Arnbjorn growled in displeasure as the woman chuckled richly. "He gets hairier still," she admitted. "I assume you'll take the job?"

"I owe you a death… and I hate to leave a lady unsatisfied."

_"Uncle, that innuendo was so bad Siddgeir would be ashamed to use it,"_ Aurelia observed sarcastically in his head.

But she didn't seem to mind. "We could use his polish," she told her growling husband.

"He's flirting with you, Astrid. I can smell his lust."

"I'm a killer, not dead," Irkand pointed out. "Besides, should I tell a member of the Dark Brotherhood she's ugly?"

_"Great move, Uncle. You're implying you're only finding her attractive because she might kill you."_

_ …Why am I imagining my dead niece giving me romantic advice?_ Irkand shook his head to clear it.

"Of course not," Astrid responded with a coy smile her husband missed. Maybe she was tired of hairy idiot and wanted something a little more refined.

"Well, my lady, I shall be off to Riften." Irkand smiled briefly, his cloak of grief lightened a little. Aurelia – well, pre-Titus Aurelia – would encourage him to find happiness again. During her teenage years, after he'd found her in the Khajiit camps and before she'd been chosen by the Emperor, she'd been an opinionated but cheerful girl.

_If I can make allies with the Dark Brotherhood, I could make my duty to the Empire a lot easier…_

"I hope to see you soon, Irkand." Astrid waved at him, much to Arnbjorn's annoyance, and Irkand returned the gesture.

_Yes, I will see you soon…_

…

Riften, 5th Heartfire 4E 201

"I've never seen so many people cheer at someone's death before."

"Grelod the Kind. Even we knew of her nature in Whiterun."

"That was… a fairly gruesome way to kill someone though. I pity the children who found the corpse."

"Somehow I don't think they're too cut up about it."

"Kill one person and you can solve so many problems. I wonder at the possibilities!"

_I'll have to remember that little girl,_ Astrid thought as she observed two mercenaries (a Dunmer and a Nord), the local jeweller (nice chap), Maven Black-Briar (conceited cow who Astrid would kill for free if someone performed the Black Sacrament) and a big-eyed little girl react to Irkand's good work.

On closer inspection, the Dunmer and the Nord looked to be Companions (they both carried Skyforge Steel weapons) and Astrid noted them. While they'd never clashed with the heirs of Ysgramor, she still kept track of the memorable ones to avoid difficulties. Each had their place in the cosmos, after all.

"You approve?" murmured Irkand's voice. Astrid forced herself to remain calm as she turned to face the handsome Redguard with his cultured Imperial accent.

"I do indeed," she responded approvingly. "I'm a little surprised at your… methods though."

Irkand's face darkened. "That evil bitch had a dark hole with shackles in it. Child-sized shackles."

"You don't approve of harming children?" It could be a bit of a sticky point in the future…

"I had a niece who spent nine days locked in a hole during the destruction of Cloud Ruler Temple."

"Oh." Astrid wasn't sure what to say. "The niece who… ah…"

"Died in that great storm on the northern coast," Irkand confirmed bitterly. "She was one of the only people who never hated me on principle."

"I'm sorry." Astrid patted his arm sympathetically. "They say that storm was…"

"Mage-sent. I don't know who sent it, but I know who was responsible for her being on that ship in the first place, and I will kill them when the time is right." Irkand sighed, forcing his expression into the Colovian stiff upper lip.

"Well… If you'd like to join our Family, we'll gladly help you," Astrid found herself promising. She had few scruples but knew it was rare to find someone who loved unconditionally.

"…Thank you." Irkand's voice was sincere. He looked around, noting the two Companions. "We should leave. Those two look smart for mercenaries and might put two and two together."

Astrid held out her hand to the newest member of her Family. "Come home with me."

"Gladly."

And with those words, the future of Tamriel was changed forever.


	12. Games

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**Games**

Jorrvaskr, 5th Heartfire 4E 201

The mead-hall of the Companions was quiet. Most of the whelps had been dispatched on jobs around Skyrim to avoid diplomatic incidents; Lia, whose combat skills were minimal, was consulting with Farengar Secret-Fire up at Dragonsreach. Now the great feasting table sat not Companions, but the claimants of the throne of Skyrim and their advisers, and none would break the silence.

Kodlak, seated at the head of the table as Harbinger, rapped his knuckles on the hard, scarred wood. Elisif flinched and gasped, earning a contemptuous grunt from Galmar Stone-Fist. From what Lia explained before her departure to Dragonsreach, the girl had been raised Imperial and usually deferred to the dominant male of her clan because that's what most Imperial women did. At the moment, that kinsman was Falk Firebeard, who was at least competent. If she were merely a Jarl, it would be tiresome but acceptable so long as the people of Solitude were taken care of. But to be High Queen, she would need to be made of sterner stuff than what she'd shown so far.

"That Ulfric killed Torygg in a duel which followed the protocols of the Moot is undeniable. However, my interpretation is that by using the Voice, he violated the _spirit_ of the Moot and therefore does not automatically have the right to succeed as High King."

Galmar scowled but Ulfric nodded consideringly. "I knew it would not be a fair battle. But I killed Torygg to show Skyrim's wretched condition."

Kodlak turned a flat grey stare in the Jarl of Windhelm's direction. "You killed your High King to make a point?"

"Torygg admired what you did to the Reachmen in Markarth. If you'd just spoken _to_ him, not _at_ him, he might have supported you!" Elisif's high voice cracked with grief as heads on the Imperial side turned in her direction. "We were trying to find a middle ground, Ulfric. Why didn't you let us?"

Ulfric's face flickered with surprise but he stubbornly lifted his chin. "There is no middle ground, girl. Either we worship Talos and celebrate what being Nord is all about or we deny Him and therefore ourselves."

"My name is Elisif. Not girl!" The slender redhead in her fine robes raised her head defiantly, ignoring the muttering of Falk Firebeard and General Tullius. Kodlak leaned back in his seat, wondering if this was the first sign of a backbone or simply a spoiled, grieving child's temper tantrum.

"I thought that your goldskin puppet master would be here today," Ulfric continued, ignoring the Jarl of Solitude as he stared at Tullius, the man who'd almost executed him.

"One, Elenwen is not my puppet master. Two, she wasn't invited. Three, some enthusiast has been taking bowshots at the Thalmor embassy and hanging dead Altmer from the gates." Kodlak noted the subtle note of relish in the General's voice. He vaguely recalled the Praetor from the Battle of the Red Ring, who'd helped devise the strategy which saved Cyrodiil.

"I like them already," Galmar observed with bloodthirsty cheer.

"Me too," Ulfric agreed with a grin.

_Me three,_ Kodlak thought but kept his opinion to himself. He was supposed to be neutral after all.

"I'd speculate it's a Blade. No one else would have the skills to successfully infiltrate the Embassy and escape again," Rikke noted professionally. "Or the grudge."

Ulfric smiled, like he knew something, and Kodlak recalled that Lia convinced him she was a Blade to avoid the Stormcloak finding out her true identity. "As entertaining as it is to speculate on who's killing Thalmor, we have more important business to attend to," the Harbinger said. "Both of you have approached me to discuss a truce in the civil war until the dragon menace has been dealt with."

"I, Ulfric Jarl of Windhelm, accept responsibility for my part in bringing about Alduin's return." Ever the orator, Ulfric cleverly apologised for triggering the World-Eater's presence n Skyrim, but not the death of Torygg himself.

"Does that mean you'll submit to Imperial justice?" Tullius asked.

"Imperial justice is an oxymoron," Ulfric retorted. "I will answer to Shor and Tsun when I die."

"Don't suppose you'd fall on your sword and save us all a lot of grief?"

"Don't get your hopes up." The Jarl of Windhelm turned his attention to Kodlak. "So, Harbinger, you are the arbiter of honour. How would _you_ settle this dispute?"

Kodlak regarded him flatly once more. "I am a neutral mediator and you damned well know that, Ulfric. If either you or Elisif would rule, you'll need to show skills in diplomacy. So start doing so."

"I want weregild for my husband!" Elisif blurted. "You yourself said that the death was dishonourable, Harbinger."

"I said, Elisif, that the death violated the spirit of the Moot. Torygg died with his head held high and a weapon in his hand. It was no dishonourable death." Kodlak looked to Ulfric, who was murmuring something to his Steward Jorleif.

Finally the Jarl of Windhelm faced the Jarl of Solitude. "I will pay forty septims for my illegal use of the Voice."

"For the love of Talos, Ulfric, give the woman a fair weregild! Politics aside, she's a widow now and deserves the coin." Rikke's voice was hard and admonishing.

"You are correct, Rikke, though it sorrows me you still swear by Talos yet remain loyal to the Empire."

The sternly beautiful Legate raised her head with quiet pride. "Before He was Talos the God, He was Tiber Septim the man, and it is still His Empire."

"I didn't hear that," Tullius muttered. "Just if the Thalmor come asking, that's all."

"And before He was Tiber Septim, He was Hjalti Early-Beard of Atmora," Kodlak reminded everyone. "We know our theology, Legate."

"I'm impressed a Nord knows what theology means," Tullius muttered in Colovian.

"I have travelled to Hammerfell, Cyrodiil and High Rock," the Harbinger told him in the same language. "I, like my second Skjor – the Companion who escorted you – also fought in the Legion."

Skjor, who'd remained silent as he stood alongside the glowering Vilkas behind Ulfric, nodded and folded his arms. Aela and Farkas stood guard over the Imperials.

"I apologise," Tullius said. "I'm… not a diplomat."

"We noticed that," Elisif murmured with a flash of dry wit. It seemed the girl had more depth to her than it seemed.

"We all did," Kodlak agreed ruefully. Then he sighed. "There are truths on both sides. What Skyrim is now just going through with the Thalmor, Cyrodiil has endured for twenty-five years. I have received statements from highly ranked Imperial contacts that the intention of the White-Gold Concordat was to buy us time to prepare for the next round with Alinor; hence the lack of enforcement upon private Talos worship."

Tullius nodded subtly as Ulfric narrowed his eyes. "They should have continued the fight."

"All that would have done, old friend, is gotten the rest of humanity killed," Rikke chided. "But… Kodlak is correct. I can't speak for the Emperor, but…"

"Win or lose, Skyrim will take the brunt of the next Thalmor invasion," Tullius finished bluntly. "Give up this pointless war, Ulfric, because it will take High Rock, Cyrodiil and Skyrim to defeat those goldskin bastards."

"Skyrim can take care of itself!" Ulfric rose to his feet. "You wish to know why I fight? I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of strangers wearing familiar faces. I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing. I fight... because I must."

"Oh, to Oblivion with you!" Tullius retorted, standing up himself. Kodlak gestured to the Circle to remain relaxed but alert. "I'm from the West Weald, you son of a bitch. Do you know what that means? My family were killed by Thalmor witch-fire. I served under Jonna and learned the craft of war from her. I watched good soldiers, men and women alike, Nord and Breton and Redguard and Imperial, die at the hands of the goldskins. And for the past twenty years I have watched the fucking Thalmor wander around Cyrodiil like they fucking own it. They pulled down the fucking brass dragon statue of Martin Septim! They shattered the White-Gold Tower. Compared to that, _Skyrim has gone through absolutely fucking nothing_!"

Ulfric's gaze was hard and uncompromising. "That's what happens when you roll over and show your belly to the witch-elves of Alinor."

Rikke's hand was on her General's arm, firm but kind as she pulled Tullius back into his seat. "You don't want to open that bucket of worms, Ulfric. Or I will start discussing what the Thalmor did to _you._"

The Jarl of Windhelm went ashen-faced and Kodlak stroked his beard. He'd heard rumours, but…

_You know Balgruuf will be crowned somehow. You need to find a way to stop Skyrim imploding until-_

_ "Maw unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down, births the walking winter's woe, the High King in his Jagged Crown."_

The Harbinger didn't realise he'd recited the ancient verse until dead silence fell upon the mead-hall. He grunted in pain at the rotting sickness within as he got to his feet, leaning on the table for support.

"The Jagged Crown has been lost since Borgas," Ulfric said doubtfully, but Galmar looked energised.

"The Jagged Crown! It heralds back to a time before jarls and moots. Back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him." He looked at Ulfric, then at the Imperials. "It seems that the Harbinger has found a solution after all. Whoever finds the Jagged Crown will be High King of Skyrim."

Kodlak took a deep breath. "No scuffles. No keeps taken. No Holds raided. All disputes will be brought to me… or my successor, as I am no longer young. When the Crown is found, whosoever holds it will be High King."

"And what if this mythical artefact is never found?" Tullius rightfully pointed out.

"General, the Harbinger is gifted with a measure of prescience. It's one of the old magics of Atmora," Rikke told him. "If a Harbinger says there's going to be a wildfire, the Holds prepare. Kodlak's predecessor Askar knew of the Great War almost simultaneously with the Thalmor's appearance at court on the 30th Frostfall. If he says the Jagged Crown is going to be found, it _will_ be found."

"Damned prophecies," the General muttered; Kodlak sympathised with him.

"If Ulfric must pay Elisif weregild, then we want Jarl Dengeir returned to Falkreath," Jorleif said. "The Empire used vile tactics to make him look insane."

"Denied. Five thousand septims is not the price of a vote in the Moot. However, to keep the balance, the Empire will pay weregild for the five hundred men who died in the Battle of Bruma during the Oblivion Crisis." Kodlak paused and added, "It's the same amount of coin."

"Fine." Elisif glared at him like a wet puppy.

"Don't look at me like that. I am neutral, remember?" Kodlak sighed again. He was doing a lot of it these days. "For the love of the Nine, please cooperate with the Dragonborn if he needs help. He's tall, blonde and runs around in a horned helmet."

"You just described half of Skyrim's sellswords," Galmar pointed out.

"He'll be the one Shouting, being attacked by random flying lizards that do the same and usually accompanied by Farkas, the Dunmer Athis and the Imperial women Lia and Ria."

"You're trusting grayskins and Imperials to watch the Dragonborn's back?" Galmar asked incredulously.

"Old friend, Lia is the Blade from Bruma," Ulfric told him. "And… the other two are Companions."

"Technically they're whelps, but they're smart and steady," Kodlak confirmed, looking pointedly at Skjor, Aela and Vilkas. "And they don't have a knack for pissing Brom off."

"Ah, the legendary temper of the Dragonborn." Ulfric's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "What game are you playing at, Harbinger?"

Kodlak met that green gaze easily. "None," he responded honestly. "I have relayed what I have dreamed of. The Jagged Crown will be found and whoever finds it will be High King."

Ulfric nodded and smiled subtly. "Very well. A truce until Alduin is defeated and the Crown found."

Tullius looked mulish but nodded. "Fine."

"Then this meeting is over. Jarl Hrongar, I am sure, will be willing to accommodate you for the night."

Most of the others exited, Elisif's expression perturbed and Ulfric looking a bit too smug, but Legate Rikke lingered. "How much do you know?" she asked pointedly.

Kodlak glanced to the rest of the Circle. "Enough to know some of it isn't my tale to share. What is shared in confidence with the Harbinger remains so."

The Nord woman growled in frustration. "Don't play word games, Kodlak. Ulfric thinks he's going to get the Crown-"

"He won't… and neither will Elisif." Kodlak jerked his head in the direction of the Throat of the World and Rikke's jaw dropped.

"But who the hell's the Dragonborn when he's at home?"

"A man who understands both sides," Kodlak told her. "A good man, a solid one."

Skjor stirred uneasily. "We shouldn't play politics, Harbinger-"

"I saw him wearing the Jagged Crown. And don't you tell him that. We need him focused on Alduin." Then Kodlak looked pointedly at Vilkas. "I also dreamed of Lia. Her future is bound intimately with that of the Companions."

Vilkas grunted. "Why didn't you say so?"

"Because you would have argued anyway." Kodlak smirked gently at the fiery Companion. "You _did_ have that kick to the balls coming."

"Whatever. The woman can take a hit, I'll give her that."

Kodlak turned back to Rikke. "As I said, I know enough to understand some of it isn't my tale to tell."

Rikke looked frustrated. "That woman has duties to the Empire-"

"Which must come second in the wake of the dragon menace, Legate." Kodlak patted her arm gently. "I know who she was in Cyrodiil. But the reason you've kept her anonymous is part of why she is in the Companions. She needs to learn to think for herself, to lead and not follow, and to understand honour."

"If it's a choice between my oath and you-"

"I understand, Rikke." Kodlak sighed. "I've bought us time to fight Alduin. Keep Tullius out of trouble. Ulfric has his faults but he'll keep his word."

"Fine." The Legate exhaled heavily. "But if he figures it out, you're screwed."

"He won't jeopardise his honour and standing with the Moot." _I hope._

Rikke shook her head and left the mead-hall. Once she was gone, Aela walked to the feasting table and poured herself a flagon of ale.

"Did you really see Brom wearing the Jagged Crown?"

"A crown made of dragon's teeth? Yes."

"Is Lia somehow involved with this damned 'cure' you're seeking?"

"…Possibly."

"No one's gonna force you or Skjor to take it," Farkas told her.

"You think I'm _happy_ about our pack getting broken up?" Aela snapped back. "I can't stop you, but it doesn't mean I'm not allowed be hurt at the thought of losing family."

The Huntress stalked up to the big warrior, hurt and grief on her face as Kodlak sighed. He'd had this argument a dozen times. "And you, Farkas! You're the Champion of Hircine! You would spit in the face of the god who honoured you enough to give you Saviour's Hide?"

"Kodlak says it's bad-"

"For once in your life, think for yourself! I don't begrudge the old man his deathbed wish, though why he'd prefer a mead-swilling afterlife to the joy of the hunt is beyond me. I can even understand Vilkas wanting it because he and the blood have never mingled well." Aela's voice was almost cracking with sorrow. "Skjor and I will even agree to run all werewolf candidates by the Circle before we give them the gift. But please, Farkas, I've got two Shield-Siblings who want to abandon the pack. Please don't be the third."

_Dammit, Aela_- The Huntress, for all her wild ways, knew how to play Farkas like a lute. If the giant man had been in beast form, his ears would be flattened in shame at hurting his pack.

"Let him decide for himself, not make emotional appeals!" Vilkas snapped.

"You and Kodlak have told him that he ought to be ashamed of what he is," Aela retorted. "Let him think for himself."

"This is Farkas. He's an icebrain," Skjor pointed out, quite unnecessarily. "Love him as a brother, but that's what he is."

"Stop it!" Coal-black fur rippled over Farkas' skin before he controlled the shift. All the other Companions tended to shift fully when angry, but only the easygoing Farkas could control himself. "Just… stop… fightin'!"

"Brother-"

"Shut up, Vilkas!" Farkas actually snarled, eyes quicksilver with anger. "You've all been snappin' at me like I was the mammoth the pack was bringin' down. Most of you have been treatin' the whelps like shit too. Yeah, Vilkas, Skjor, talkin' to you both. Aela's not so bad but she's 'all my ancestors were Companions so I know what's best for the Circle'. That sort of attitude loses people. An' ya was handin' out the beast blood like it was candy. Arnbjorn, anybody?"

The big warrior turned to Kodlak. "I trust your dreams, old man, an' I'll help you. Always have. But I need ta think about stuff. An' if I die before I figure things out, then as Aela said, Hircine likes me. Worse afterlives than huntin' things for eternity."

The Harbinger hung his head in shame. Farkas had just hit every nail involving the Companions on the head. _If only he were smarter-_

"I'm goin' out for a drink an' I'll collect Lia from Dragonsreach," Farkas finished, running a hand through his hair. "Hopefully Brom will be back soon an' we can focus on real problems."

He stormed out of Jorrvaskr, leaving Kodlak feel as if he'd both won and lost today.


	13. The Best-Laid Plans

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Time jump ahoy!

…

**The Best-Laid Plans…**

Border of Cyrodiil and Skyrim, 6th Heartfire 4E 201

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

The man's voice was rough and coarse, his language the sort his mama told him never to use where someone could catch him. The treasure-wagon he was locked into opened up, revealing a sky colder and bluer than anything he'd ever known, and an unshaven ruffian with a stubbled head looked down at him in complete disgust. He clutched his dagger, prepared to fight and go to Sovngarde just like his mama had told him.

"Put that away, son, you'll hurt yourself," the bandit observed in complete disgust.

"Glory or Sovngarde!" He was a Nord. He wasn't afraid to die!

"Where's the furs?" asked another bandit, his accent vaguely western Breton. He wandered over to look into the wagon the boy cowered in, turning out to be a red-haired Nord wearing the same dull brown leather armour covered in straps and pouches.

"They're _firs_. Dammit, Delvin, you're a fucking dolt!" complained a pale female Imperial. "We stole a bunch of logs!"

"And one lad, Vex," drawled the red-haired thief.

"Good clothes he's wearing, Bryn," observed the Breton thug. "Babbling about Sovngarde even though he's an Imperial."

"Nah, he's a Nord from Bruma. He's too sturdy to be a pureblood Imperial," Vex corrected. "It can be hard to tell, especially with all the fucking Aurelii running around, but…"

The boy stuck out his tongue at her. His mama was Aurelii and so was his uncle, the one he rarely got to see.

"Feisty," grinned the Breton thug.

Bryn the redhead leaned over and removed some of the straw at the bottom of the cart to reveal shackles, then eyed the boy's wrists carefully. "How'd these come off?" he asked.

He raised his chin defiantly. "I picked them."

Delvin, who had to be the Breton, grinned. "I like him already."

"Captured for ransom, lad?" Bryn asked kindly.

The boy shrugged. He didn't know if he could trust them. "Maybe they wanted to kill me," he admitted.

"Politics," Vex said disgustedly. "What are we going to do with him, Bryn? If he's smart enough to know that someone wants to kidnap or kill him, he's smart enough not to tell us where he's from."

"Could take him to Honorhall. With Grelod getting killed by the Dark Brotherhood, the place will improve." Bryn scratched a bearded cheek.

"You mean we can't keep him?" Delvin asked, sounding disappointed.

"We're the Thieves' Guild, Delvin, not the fucking orphanage!" Vex snapped.

"And after Grelod the Kind, half of those kids will either be Dark Brotherhood or with us," Delvin retorted. "Besides, we need fresh blood. And no way in Oblivion am I leaving a kid out here."

"My mama's somewhere in Skyrim," he told them. "I don't know where though."

Vex muttered something rude under her breath as Bryn sighed. "He's coming with us," the Nord decided. "Honorhall's in Riften anyway."

The boy stood up and brushed the straw off his clothes. Hopefully he could have a bath soon; he hadn't had one since he was stuffed into the wagon instead of the carriage. Other than being kept mostly confined, he'd been fed regularly.

_I need to find Mama,_ he decided. Surely once he was in this Riften place, he'd be able to start looking.

On the plans of men and the plots of gods the fate of the world is changed…

…

Jorrvaskr, 15th Heartfire 4E 201

"You are the lousiest archer I have ever had the misfortune to encounter."

"I haven't handled a bow since the age of ten," Lia responded wearily, rolling her shoulders to ease the ache in them. She missed the hot baths back in Cyrodiil.

"Well, at the moment you couldn't hit the broad side of a dead dragon," Aela observed in exasperation. "Take a break and then work on the pells with daggers."

The only female Companion walked away and Lia sighed. She'd made some progress in hand-to-hand combat and was finally used to wearing light leather armour all the time, but bows still felt _wrong_ in her hands despite Aela dedicating several hours in every day teaching her. Athis, her instructor in the lighter blades, was more sympathetic and patient and she was at least gripping the daggers correctly.

"I can learn a new dance in two weeks," the green-eyed woman said aloud disgustedly, "but I can't even hit the wall with an arrow. What's wrong with me?"

"The Companions are used to their whelps either having a talent for or training in war," Brom explained as he and Athis, his constant companion (pun intended), walked around the side of Jorrvaskr to the courtyard. The Dragonborn was wearing his iconic helmet, lips quirked sideways as he watched Lia perform the stretches she'd learned since childhood.

"How'd the job in Bloated Man's Grotto go?" Lia asked, changing the subject quickly. Brom's implication that she had neither the talent nor the training for war had stung, though she'd never admit it.

"Good. Runil got his diary back and we found something you might like." Athis set down his pack, untying a long, slightly curved object wrapped in dirty cloth from it. Lia gasped, the shape all too familiar from her childhood and youth, and concealed her inward flinch at the memories it provoked.

The cloth around it opened to reveal a deceptively simply blade, its guard a coiled serpent, its sheath black polished cane preserved by Akaviri magic long lost to men and mer. "It belonged to a survivor of Cloud Ruler Temple who died protecting a Shrine of Talos from the Thalmor," Brom explained softly as he drew out a scrap of parchment. _"'To he who finds this, know that I, Acilius Bolar, last of the Blades to survive the attack on Cloud Ruler Temple, took refuge here, in this ancient sanctuary. The Thalmor have come for me, but they shall not desecrate this place. I go forth to meet my death with honour. If you are worthy, take up my blade and do the same.'"_

"We've been trying to find an Akaviri longsword – a katana – for you," Athis explained, drawing the weapon to reveal the shimmer of enchantment on its quicksilver surface. "When Brom noticed this, we took it as a sign."

She wanted to tell him to throw the damned thing away, that she wasn't any kind of Blade or warrior, just a scarred whore fighting to protect her son and stay away from the Thalmor. But the words stuck in her throat. She had started this by claiming to be a Blade in Winterhold. Farengar had been teaching her what he knew of the dragon lore, which was less than she liked but more than she had, and _J'zargo_ of all people had sent a courier with several books he'd pilfered from the Arcanaeum.

Her hands tightened convulsively about the sword and took it from Athis; she pulled it completely from its sheath as she recalled Dar'saad and Irkand doing, turning swiftly to lunge through an invisible enemy.

Then instinctively, she followed the patterns of the first dance she'd ever learned, swinging the katana instead of a weighted scarf attached to a handle. The sword _almost_ felt right, like she did when she was nearing mastery of a dance.

"I _told_ Aela we were giving you the wrong weapons," Athis said smugly.

"It should be paired with a lighter, shorter version called a wazikashi," she murmured. "I recall Dar'saad and Uncle Irkand performing a sword-dance once, the week he found me in Hammerfell. I was twelve and couldn't remain with the Khajiit because I was becoming too tall to pass for a Ra Gada orphan."

"Eorlund once told me that the Skyforge has made many Blades weapons," Brom told her softly. "No doubt he will figure out something."

Lia made a rude noise, enthralled by the sheen of the blue-white metal. "An elven or ebony dagger should suffice. It just needs to be curved, but not as much as a Hammerfell scimitar, and light."

Brom scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. The Dragonborn had turned out to be an intelligent, remarkably literate man with a better grasp on the political situation in Skyrim than she had. That he was handsome didn't hurt either, though Lia had steadfastly tried to avoid thinking about that.

"A Nordic quicksilver dagger has a heavy blade and pommel, but it is curved and light," he said musingly. "It will also be less noticeable – well, not as… ah… _controversial_ as ebony or elven."

Athis hummed in agreement. "We've been trying to teach you how to use straight-edged weapons when what little training you had revolved around curved ones," he admitted ruefully. "Orcish daggers are curved, but heavier, and daedric… Well, I need not say any more."

Lia looked up from the Oathblade in her hands. "I'll trust your judgment. Even with a sword like this, I'm going to be a lousy fighter."

"You've got the basic moves down pat. You just need to get used to using it." Athis smirked cheerfully as Farkas emerged from the double doors. "We've just got a job to clear out Redoran's Retreat and you're coming with us."

"I'm not sure Lia's able to go with you," Farkas said as he neared the whelps. "Aela just asked Kodlak if he was senile."

"I recall asking him that myself when he insisted I test against your brother," Lia agreed ruefully.

Then Brom suddenly unsheathed his war-axe and swung it in a diagonal arc towards her torso; Lia spun and blocked the blow by holding her katana crosswise to the descending axe before jabbing with the sharp point to force him back.

"Aela was using the wrong weapon to teach you," Athis drawled amusedly as Farkas blinked at the performance.

"Apparently so," the Huntress conceded from the porch. The whelps turned around to see her and Skjor standing there, looking impressed, while Vilkas was just behind with a moderately incredulous expression.

"What are you looking at? Get to the pells!" he snapped. "You're a long way from killing dragons with that thing."

Lia spun towards the pells, hiding a grin. Showing up Vilkas was getting to be one of her favourite pastimes…

…

30th Heartfire

"You're as competent as I can get you in a month. Soon you'll need to head out to High Hrothgar."

Balgruuf looked up at Kodlak but kept on cleaning his Skyforge Steel war-axe; normally only full Companions received one, but Eorlund had given him this one as he'd helped forge it by pumping the bellows and scraping hides. He was finding a certain amount of peace in working around the forge and idly wondered if he could learn to smith in and around killing dragons…

"Lia's far from ready," he used as his excuse. The Blade had a knack for defusing his temper or drawing an irritant to herself to give him some space. But every time he tried to get closer, to know her better, she changed the subject. She was definitely hiding something.

"She won't be accompanying you. A journeyman mage has requested her presence in Winterhold," Kodlak immediately replied. "Farkas will be going with her."

He opened his mouth to command it otherwise, but then shut it with a snap. Kodlak had that mulish glint in his eye that guaranteed argument would get him nowhere. "She's a Blade," he began instead, only to receive a flat look from the Harbinger.

"She has her own path to walk and it necessarily doesn't lie in your shadow," he said. "Besides, she's become something of a specialist in arcane lore. Once the Winterhold job is done, she and Farkas will be heading to Solitude to consult the Bards' College."

What he wanted was some time relatively alone with her, to try and draw out some of her secrets. He could see them in those turquoise eyes, in the way she flinched every time she saw her reflection, in her touchiness over being called a whore despite being a Companion of Cyrodiil. There was a story there, one which involved the Imperial Court, and her casual knowledge of Tullius and even Elisif. The one time he'd seen her bare belly, the dimpled roughened skin of a woman who'd given birth was noticeable; she'd caught him looking and pulled on a spare shirt quickly, flushing like a virgin.

_There is a story there. I need to know._ There was a reason why Kodlak practically coddled her, much to most of the Circle's resigned exasperation. Despite getting better with the katana, she was nowhere even near his level of competency. But then, she didn't have Irileth to drill her.

"The Chronicles of the Harbingers mention that there is an ideological conflict between the Greybeards and the Blades," Kodlak finally said. "Going to High Hrothgar with Lia would be… insulting."

Balgruuf muttered defeatedly. "Fine. I assume my partner will be Athis?"

"Yes. And Irileth will also be going with you. She's insisted and…" Kodlak paused significantly, lips quirked wryly. "I have no wish to make an enemy of the Nerevarine."

"Told you that, yeah?"

"A previous Harbinger met her and recorded her appearance."

"Ah." Balgruuf sighed, then regarded Kodlak shrewdly. "You want her to research whatever cure you're looking for, aren't you?"

For the first time, he had the pleasure of seeing the Harbinger discomforted. But only for a moment. "It is none of your concern. Your focus is on the dragons."

"If I am a Companion, then it is my concern," Balgruuf retorted, sensing a weak spot.

Kodlak's jaw set stubbornly. "I will tell you after you return from High Hrothgar, assuming the hunt for Alduin doesn't take you elsewhere."

Balgruuf throttled down his temper. Kodlak no doubt had his reasons and he was no longer Jarl of Whiterun to demand answers. "Fine, I'll go tomorrow," he said through gritted teeth.

"As you wish." Kodlak sighed. "I know you want to know more about your fellow Companion, but Lia's history is even more complicated than yours, and she certainly isn't free to pursue anything beyond friendship."

He wanted to demand what Kodlak knew, but the confidence of the Harbinger was absolute. He'd have to try and pry it out of Lia herself, or maybe even Farkas. Those two seemed friendly enough.

"Very well." Balgruuf turned his attention back to his war-axe. How could something be more complicated than a former Jarl who'd faked his death because he'd become a figure of prophecy and was now hiding out in his own city?

He was afraid to ask but dying to know.

…

_A.,_

_ It is done. The boy is removed from contention. Do your part._

_E._


	14. Often Go Awry

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I know I'm speeding through this and I apologise if it affects the quality of the story! Thanks for reading anyway.

…

…**Often Go Awry**

The Katariah, 9th Frostfall 4E 201

"Eight and One."

In the reading of that one letter, Tullius saw his Emperor age by twenty years, looking like the man who had asked for immortality but not eternal youth. He set Armaund Motierre's hastily scrawled note aside, raised himself from his desk with painful dignity, and met his war-leader's eyes.

"Martin is dead."

_First Aurelia and now Martin… This has to be either the Dark Brotherhood or an inside job._ But Tullius kept his suspicions to himself, instead remaining impassive as Titus Mede II broke down into brief choking sobs. As always the Penitus Oculatus watched without judgment, only the tightening of Maro's lips giving any indication of his personal feelings. The man came from a cadet branch of the Mede family with ties to half of the Colovian Heartlands; with mother and bastard out of the way, his son Gaius would have a shot at the throne.

"The remnants of the Dark Brotherhood don't have the reach to kill a lad in Chorrol," Maro said aloud, licking his lips. "That means it was either the Thalmor or… treason."

"One and the same," Titus said heavily. "One and the same…"

His hand wrapped around the religious amulet he wore; it was suspected to be one of Talos, but Tullius would never confirm it even if he knew. "The gods make mockery of our best-laid plans, Tullius. Perhaps they are weary of us after all."

Rikke, the only non-Colovian in the room, shook her head. "The Dragonborn has arrived. He will be Alduin's Bane and-"

"The world would make a fitting pyre for the last Emperor of Tamriel," Titus continued bleakly, overriding the Nord. "Let the Thalmor have their victory. The struggles of men are the entertainment of the gods."

Rikke's stern face hardened. "I am sorry for the loss of your son, more than you know. But if you give up now, you make mock of the thousands of Nords who died for your Empire."

"And what do you know of my son, Legate?" Titus' voice had sharpened into icy steel.

"That he would have been the first truly Nord Emperor since Tiber Septim," his second replied coldly.

"The boy was Nord by merest courtesy." Titus shook his head, hand trembling with the feelings he dared not release, the rage and grief he surely felt. "No, it was not to be."

Rikke's jaw rippled as she jerked a nod. "Give up then. Prove Ulfric right. Prove the Thalmor right. But I'm a Nord and I will fight until Alduin devours my soul in Sovngarde."

"Fucking Nords. The Empire will die because of your pride." Titus waved a hand dismissingly at Rikke and Tullius. "Go then, make your futile plans. Leave an old man to grieve."

With little choice but to obey, Tullius and Rikke saluted and left. The door had barely closed behind them before the sound of Titus' weeping reached their ears.

…

Castle Dour

"You did _what_?"

"My contacts in Winterhold and Windhelm told me that a woman matching Aurelia Too-Tall's description washed up on the northern coast and was rescued by two mages. I kept it to myself and the local Legate because the Thalmor had every reason to want the woman dead. Now she's a Companion of Jorrvaskr and recognised as a Blade by Ulfric, whch gives us a shot at getting intelligence from the Stormcloaks directly."

"I should fucking run you through here and now."

"But you won't, sir. Because Titus Mede is a fucking mess and you command the most powerful Legion in the Empire. You just need to settle Skyrim down first."

Rikke stared down at her commanding officer, watching Tullius' taciturn face flicker between fury, relief, concern and then ambition. "I'm not young myself," the General finally admitted. "But damn you, Legate, you're right."

He squared his shoulders, expression grim. "I'm going with inside job. The Dark Brotherhood have gotten more professional lately, but they can't reach Chorrol. Maro is more useless than a breastband on a bull; I'm going to call in Irkand. He's an evil sonuvabitch, but Aurelia is his niece and Martin was his grand-nephew."

"It's _so_ nice to know that you hold me in high esteem," Irkand drawled flatly, having entered while Rikke was preoccupied with the General.

Tullius raised his eyes to meet Irkand's cold gaze, but the assassin was staring darkly at Rikke. She looked at him calmly, even when he gave the terrible smile that frightened so many others. Something about him looked darker, grimmer, deadlier.

"Well-played, Legate. By convincing me of my niece's death, you convinced the enemies of the Empire to show their hand more freely." Irkand's smile was death incarnate. "But you have also set in motion events which cannot be stopped."

"You're the new brains behind the Dark Brotherhood," she guessed, staring at the assassin.

"Indeed. They are my new Family." Tullius' hand drifted towards his battered Legion-issue gladius, but Rikke shook her head at him. Irkand was deadlier than the pair of them put together. If he'd wanted them dead, they'd be facing Tsun now.

Irkand leaned forward, resting his hands on the map-table. "Armaund Motierre has finally hired the Dark Brotherhood to murder the Emperor."

"…You refused, right?" Tullius asked.

The Redguard shook his head very slowly. "Sithis gives us the ability to kill whomever we want. However, we must kill whenever someone asks us to. All I can give you is enough warning to prepare yourself."

"You evil sonuvabitch!"

"I do believe you called me that before, General. Know that if Motierre hadn't approached us, I would have killed Titus Mede anyway for failing my family."

"I have to tell Maro about this," Tullius said flatly.

"Do you want him to die?"

The General's silence and slightly guilty expression were answer enough.

"I can promise that the mission will be clean and professional, Mede's death quick." Irkand's smile was tender, dark, mocking. "You can try to kill me but you'll be drinking with Stendarr before your body hits the floor."

"Evil sonuvabitch," Tullius muttered, releasing the grip on his sword. Rikke sighed, wondering if her attempt to protect the Nord heir to the Empire had led to his demise.

_Tsun will not greet me, I will not see the Hall of Valour or even the mists of Sovngarde,_ she thought sadly.

"You said that already, Tullius." Irkand shifted with lazy grace, his round face deceptively pleasant. "Skyrim is a shithole but it has a knack of carving a man down to his true self."

"Cyrodiil's not much better these days," Rikke retorted, defending her homeland.

"Indeed," the assassin conceded. "But the Empire might do well to return to its roots here. The Nords are _most_ unhappy about being forgotten. They've always been the Empire's spine, something which has been conveniently ignored because it's at the end of the world."

"You might be an evil bastard, Irkand, but you've hit the nail on the head," the Legate conceded.

"I can't abandon Cyrodiil," Tullius said stubbornly.

"I'm not saying that you should. Give Skyrim to this Ulfric in return for a mutual aid treaty against the Thalmor. Civil war ends, the country gets a strong leader and you can return home to prepare Cyrodiil for the second Great War."

Rikke laughed. She couldn't help it. "If you think that Ulfric would accept the Empire handing him Skyrim, you've got another thing coming," she told the assassin. "Besides, Kodlak Whitemane's got both sides looking for the Jagged Crown."

"That prophecy business is crap-"

"General, there is no way in Oblivion Ulfric will get his hands on that crown." Rikke smiled grimly. "Kodlak's pushing the Dragonborn forward. And with all due respect, I trust the man's judgment in this. You don't become Harbinger unless you have a high degree of perception and common sense."

"I would feel easier knowing who the Dragonborn is," Tullius retorted.

"As would I." Rikke sighed, rubbing her nose. "Damned shame that dragon killed Balgruuf the Greater. We could have married him to Elisif after a suitable mourning period and gotten a High King who would have appeased the Stormcloaks."

"Isn't Vittoria Vici marrying some Stormcloak?"

"Asgeir Snow-Shod of Riften," Rikke confirmed. "But no High King could be married to an Imperial woman, for obvious reasons."

Irkand shrugged. "Unless I am hired to kill someone, politics is no longer a concern of mine. But I am still a loyal subject of the Empire."

Tullius laughed bitterly. "Got a strange way of showing it, Irkand."

The assassin smiled coldly. "I'm allowing the Empire to gain a stronger leader. And I've given you the name of the traitor."

"He won't be in Skyrim for months!"

"Actually, he's already here. However, you won't find him until he's paid his fee for Mede's death." Irkand nodded genially, his good humour somewhat restored with the knowledge his beloved niece was alive. "If you'll excuse me, I have family to check up on. Until we meet again."

Then he turned invisible and left the room, Rikke and Tullius struck by a paralysis spell. When it was released, the Legate was first up and helped the General to his feet. "So what now, sir?" she asked.

"Honestly? We pray. Because I have no other damned idea."

…

The Palace of Kings, Windhelm, 10th Frostfall

"You are certain of this, Bone-Breaker?"

"I am from Whiterun Hold, my Jarl. I would know him anywhere, helmet or no."

"…You are certain he is Dragonborn?"

"I didn't see him Shout, but it makes far too much sense with the evidence we have…"

"…And the Harbinger's actions." Ulfric sighed, waving a hand to the up-and-coming Ralof. "Thank you for your service. Have a seat and feast. I need to think."

He rose from his throne to join Galmar in the map-room right next to his Great Hall. "I heard," the huscarl observed laconically. "And Kodlak has tied our fucking hands."

"Indeed, old friend." The Jarl of Windhelm sighed again. "I cannot even fault him. The Dragonborn would be a mighty High King and Balgruuf the Greater would be a great one. I can even understand why Akatosh chose him."

"But?"

"He is too loyal to the Empire. He'll kneel to Titus Mede despite the power of his Thu'um and deliver Skyrim into the hands of those who denied Talos for their own survival."

Galmar grunted in his thoughtful manner. "Kodlak made a few good points though. Cyrodiil _is_ a damned mess, if the refugees from Bruma are anything to go by. Delphine had some bleak tales to share."

Ulfric regarded the huscarl with some surprise. "You pity them?"

"I pity anyone who suffered at the hands of the witch-elves," Galmar admitted. "And Bruma paid hard for their loyalty to Talos."

"The Blades harder still…" Ulfric sat down heavily at a spare table and poured himself some mead after giving Galmar a tankard. "Have you heard from Delphine recently?"

"She's trying to track down who's behind Alduin's return and murder every Thalmor she comes across."

"I admire the woman's single-minded nature, but she's… what did Tullius call her… an enthusiast."

"What of that Blade from Bruma, the one with the Companions? Kodlak might be playing silly buggers with us about Balgruuf, but…"

"No. I suspect she too is loyal to the Empire." Ulfric shook his head in sorrow. "I won't break the truce we have made. But if the Empire does so first…"

"Then we will have the advantage of both honour and preparation," Galmar agreed.

"Indeed, old friend, indeed."

…

The Blue Palace, Solitude

Elisif had never expected to be a ruling Jarl of anything, let alone the potential High Queen of Skyrim. But she'd never expected to be a widow before the age of twenty-one either. Now she was stuck on a throne with everyone talking _at_ her, but not _to_ her, just like they had with Torygg.

_Puppet Queen,_ they called her. Because she knew more about fine dresses than how to run a Hold. But Torygg had taken many years to learn; why weren't they giving her a chance? Elisif wrung her hands as Falk passed judgment, not even bothering to pretend to consult her. She wished Torygg was here, to share her frustration and grief.

_I wish Kodlak or Jarl Balgruuf were here,_ she thought mournfully. The former had always treated her with respect, even insisting that she receive weregild for Torygg's death when that had been an outburst born from the desire to make Ulfric pay _somehow._ And the latter had been kind to her when he was alive…

"We should send a legion to secure the cave," she began, only to receive a withering gold-eyed glare from Sybille Stentor.

"My scrying suggests there is nothing wrong in that cave," the court wizard said decisively. "Send a few soldiers if it would make you feel better."

"Very well. I will assign a courier to take a purse of coin to the Companions and have them investigate it." And she could sneak in a message asking Kodlak for advice-

"Companions are expensive," Falk groused. "Send a sellsword. They're cheaper."

Elisif wanted to yell at them, but that would make her look like a child. She wished she was like the Emperor's consort, the woman with the blue-green eyes who could silence a man with a single hard glance.

"We have several enchanted items in our armoury that will do no one good. Let us give one or two to the Companions." They'd do no one good because they'd belonged to Torygg. And she could rely on a Companion to take Torygg's war horn to the hidden shrine of Talos near Korvunjund.

Viarno, Headmaster of the Bards' College, coughed delicately. "I have two arriving in a week or so to consult the College's library. Perhaps you might be able to present your request then?"

"A wonderful idea, Dean. Thank you," Elisif said with gratitude. He was polite to her, if only to re-establish the Festival of King Olaf.

_Maybe we should make it the Festival of Jarl Ulfric,_ she thought bitterly, trying not to recall seeing her husband Shouted into Oblivion. Why hadn't Ulfric talked _to_ Torygg, not _at_ him?

_Because they see you as a puppet Queen,_ she reminded herself mercilessly. _And you don't know how to change their attitude._

If she wept and wailed over Torygg's death, she was lacking in dignitas. If she remained stoic, she was a cold unfeeling wench. It wasn't fair! She envied ordinary people their right to grieve freely.

_I'd perform the Black Sacrament, but Falk wouldn't pay the fee the Dark Brotherhood would ask to end the civil war._ She wasn't a true Nord; she'd never see Sovngarde. Sometimes she wished she could fall asleep and never wake up.

_If you die, Ulfric wins,_ she reminded herself. She wished she could hire the Companions to find the Jagged Crown, but Kodlak wouldn't allow it.

Elisif sighed and saw Bryling roll her eyes. At least Erikur was dead. If only she could appoint a Thane personally loyal to her…

_If wishes were fishes, cats would feast,_ she thought, recalling her mother's favourite saying. The Dawnstar-born fisherwoman had fallen in love with an Imperial sailor and followed him to Cyrodiil…

_I _will _be High Queen. Torygg deserves no less. Skyrim deserves no less…_ she vowed as her so-called advisers talked around her. Maybe, then maybe, she would no longer dream of Torygg's death.


	15. The Dragonborn Comes

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**You'll Know, You'll Know the Dragonborn's Come**

High Hrothgar, 13th Frostfall 4E 201

"Dragonborn… and the Nerevarine!"

_And the prize for stating the obvious goes to the old man in the grey robe,_ Irileth thought sardonically as Balgruuf bowed respectfully to the long-haired Nord he called Master Arngeir. Just before the Great War had broken out, Balgruuf had come here to study for a time with the Greybeards, as was the tradition with the Jarls' spare sons. He often spoke of the peace and quiet of this place, but all Irileth noticed was oppressive stone and silence. Gods above, but she hated mountains.

"Drem Yol Lok, Master Arngeir," Balgruuf greeted. "May I present Irileth, Nerevar Incarnate, Bearer of Moon-and-Star, Hortator of the Three Houses and War Leader of the Four Tribes?"

Arngeir inclined his head. "Welcome, Nerevarine. Your presence is… unexpected here."

"If it is a problem, I can leave," she offered, sensing the old man's perturbation. As much as she loathed the idea of leaving her old battle-friend alone, he was as safe in High Hrothgar as he'd be in a locked cell with a slit for nourishment.

"No! No… I am simply surprised that you are here." Arngeir coughed, looking at Athis as the whelp folded his arms and watched the other Greybeards file into the main hall. "However, I must ask that you and your Companion friend take a seat on one of the benches. Even you could not survive the power of the Thu'um."

"Of course," Irileth conceded, using Morag Tong hand-talk to get Athis to move. With ill grace the youngster obeyed; he made an excellent fighter but a poor huscarl, perhaps why he was a Companion instead.

The lessons Balgruuf learned took the better part of an afternoon, but he and Arngeir spent most of the night talking about what it meant to be Dragonborn and the philosophy of the Voice. On the way to the Throat of the World, Balgruuf had revealed the reason why the Blade Lia hadn't accompanied them; discovering that the Greybeards held great power but sat on their arses in perceived neutrality, Irileth found herself sympathising with the Blades.

_Oh? Like you couldn't have united Morrowind in the wake of the Red Year?_ Her conscience, long suppressed, was merciless. _You destroyed the Tribunal because of the grudge of Azura and then you fled, leaving your people to suffer in your wake. All because you didn't want to be a leader. All because you feared prophecy._

_ I didn't ask for thousands to die and more to become homeless, landless and cursed!_

_ No? Uriel Septim owed you. You could have accepted Barenziah's offer and been adopted as a member of the royal family. Sister to Helseth, a princess in your own right! But you refused, running away in the dead of night because you feared responsibility. And now your legend enhances that of a Nord!_

_ Balgruuf is a good man and a worthy leader._

_ And so you prove yourself like the Greybeards. Possessed of influence but unwilling to use it for the greater good._

_ Shut. Up._

"Irileth?"

The Dunmer blinked, meeting her Jarl's ice-blue eyes, noticing the ring of gold around the outer iris that slowly faded. "Your eyes change when you invoke the Thu'um," she told him.

"So Njada told me when I scared the shit out of her." Balgruuf rolled his shoulders beneath the banded iron armour he wore. Kodlak had forbidden him to wear his Skyforge Steel plate until he was to face Alduin. "It appears I must travel to a place near Morthal and collect the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller before the Greybeards will proclaim me as Dragonborn."

Irileth couldn't help but laugh. "I had to do considerably more than that," she reminded him, ignoring the pang of her conscience.

Balgruuf's mouth quirked to the side ruefully. "And no doubt the war against Alduin will be as long and arduous. Besides, I wish to speak to Idgrod Ravencrone. I have need of her wisdom."

Her Jarl's marriage-kin was a smart woman, Irileth conceded, with a true gift of prophecy that was more precise than Kodlak's prescience. "Then let us go," she said. "Prophecy waits for no mortal caught in its coils."

…

Highmoon Hall, 16th Frostfall

"I have seen you in Sovngarde with the Moon-and-Star, the Dawnbringer and the Lord of the Wolves. Beyond that, I can't tell you if victory will be had against the World-Eater."

Balgruuf squeezed his kinswoman's palsied hand. The stress of the civil war had aged Idgrod rapidly, though her gaze remained clear and tongue sharp as an ebony blade. "It is enough, more than enough."

It would have to be with someone having stolen the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and summoning him to Riverwood, of all places. Given that he'd received notes with the same handwriting for years and Lia's confirmation that Ulfric had mentioned a particular Blade, he knew that Delphine was playing silly buggers with him. No wonder she'd known about the Dragonstone and been more than capable of fetching it!

The Jarl of Morthal raised her gaze to pin Irileth, who'd become quite brooding since her time at High Hrothgar, with a sharp gaze. "I see a choice before you, Moon-and-Star: acceptance and denial. One will lead you to death, the other to a fate you hold worse than death. The path will begin on the Island of Ash and Snow."

"Solstheim? You have got to be kidding me." Irileth's voice was bitter but unsurprising. Given her status amongst the Dunmer, perhaps she'd been reflecting on what she could have done for them instead of choosing a life as a purposeless nomad.

"I wish I were. The First Dragonborn shall confront the Last and a Daedric Prince shall watch the outcome."

"As if Alduin wasn't enough to worry about!" Balgruuf muttered.

"I'm sorry, Balgruuf. I only speak what Akatosh sends me."

"It's alright, kinswoman. Forewarned is forearmed." He quirked his mouth sideways ruefully. "Your huscarl still trying to overthrow you?"

"I'll not die by his hand."Idgrod smiled weakly. "Tell the Dawnbringer that her son is not dead, regardless of what others may tell her, but he must remain cloaked in shadows until she has embraced her destiny. Tell the Lord of the Wolves that he must walk the path of Kyne to find a new way for the Companions. These things must happen before you confront Alduin, for without their aid, you will be weak before the World-Eater."

"As you wish," Balgruuf murmured, thanking the Nine that Athis was at the Moorside Inn and not here to hear this. "Is there anything you need?"

Idgrod smiled and shook her head. "I'm fine. Go and save the world."

"Of course, kinswoman." Balgruuf leaned over and kissed her dry forehead. "Get some rest."

"I will, in time. Akatosh guide you, kinsman." Idgrod's eyelids drooped and soon she was asleep.

He sighed and left her bedroom, nodding to her husband and Steward. Aslfur, who loved his psychic wife dearly, smiled sadly at Balgruuf. "Iddie's doing more about the Hold," he said softly, referring to their eldest daughter. "But Joric… his visions are worse than hers."

"He may need to train as a mage to control them," Balgruuf suggested tentatively.

"Or go to the Temples. Danica's been making hints in that direction…" Aslfur sighed. "Finish Alduin and then finish this damned war, Balgruuf."

"I will, I promise." He squeezed Aslfur's shoulder sympathetically. "Stay safe."

"I'll try. Gods with you, kinsman."

They exited Highmoon Hall and made tracks to the inn. When he neared the Moorside, for a moment he thought he was hearing souls in torment; it wasn't until he was inside that he realised that it was a rather… loud and unmusical Orc named Lurbuk. The man claimed to be a bard, which was an insult to every competent graduate the College had ever produced, and Athis was slamming down what appeared to endless tankards of mead. Much to Balgruuf's surprise, Jonna had another guest, a Redguard with the hardest slanted eyes he'd ever seen.

"Aurelii," Irileth murmured. "Seems to be more in Skyrim these days than in Cyrodiil."

"Oh, I'll sing to you of fear and death," Lurbuk began, the sound so horrible that Balgruuf would welcome Alduin stopping by for a quick drink if it meant he'd shut up.

"If you don't shut up, I'll show you fear and death," he told the Orc bard before joining Athis at his table.

"Are you saying I can't sing?" the Orc demanded, eyes narrowing.

"That was singing? I thought it was a hagraven's mating cry," Irileth observed dryly.

"Don't insult the hagravens," Balgruuf pointed out, reaching for a bottle of mead.

"I am a graduate of the Bards' College of Solitude!" the Orc bellowed belligerently.

"Must have been a slow week there," the Redguard drawled, sipping from a goblet of wine. "Or their standards are… questionable to begin with."

"I think they graduated him to be rid of him," Balgruuf agreed. The Redguard's voice was smooth as oiled silk, pure Colovian nobility, and there was something in the shape of his face that reminded him of Lia.

"I'll show you I'm a real bard!" Lurbuk yelled, launching himself in Balgruuf's direction but instead colliding with some local sellsword in iron armour.

The resulting bar brawl engulfed the Moorside Inn and spilled out into the street, Balgruuf restraining from the use of his Voice. He'd never been in a bar brawl before and mostly stuck to pushing and shoving while the sellsword and Lurbuk attacked each other. "Twelve septims on the big one!" Irileth called, looking rather amused as she watched from her seat.

It ended when Lurbuk slipped on some ice and cracked his head with an ugly sound. Balgruuf flinched as he fell facedown into the water and went for him, only to be restrained by Athis, who'd come outside during the shenanigans.

"The Redguard used magic to provoke everyone," he murmured in Dunmeris. "This was planned."

Balgruuf slanted a gaze at the Redguard with the Imperial voice and felt a frisson of recognition. This man had been in Riften the day Grelod the Kind had died, the death which was rumoured to be the work of the Dark Brotherhood.

"Get Irileth," he muttered in reply. "We're leaving."

…

Irkand stroked his chin as the Companions gathered their female Dunmer friend, who looked vaguely familiar, and left hurriedly. Lurbuk's death wasn't as clean as he preferred, but Benor would make for an excellent scapegoat.

But when the blond man in that ridiculous horned helmet looked at him, Irkand had shivered. For those light blue eyes held the gaze of something ancient and terrible indeed, even to one who heard the voice of the Night Mother. For a moment, the pupils had been slit and fringed with gold.

…

Riverwood, 18th Frostfall

Delphine rolled over as something that shouldn't have clicked did, opening her eyes just in time to see a distortion of light and air exit her room.

"Orgnar!" she yelled. "Thief!" But by the time the bartender had gotten to her room, noticing that the secret door was open, the inn door had slammed shut.

Delphine pulled herself out of bed, ignoring Orgnar's goggling eyes at her nudity, and bolted into her hidey-hole. A mixture of Akaviri, Breton and Nord curses erupted from her mouth as she realised that her katana, map marked with dragon burial sites, Book of the Dragonborn and the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller were gone.

"Sonuvabitch!" she screamed, uncaring of who heard her. Her best chance to corner this so-called Dragonborn was gone!

…

Skyrim, 19th Frostfall

"_Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."_

For the first time since Tiber Septim, the Greybeards had proclaimed a Dragonborn. Men and mer, beastfolk and dragon, all within the land heard it. Some were relieved, others terrified; some elated, others grieving. But all who heard it knew one thing.

Evgir Unslaad, the Season Unending, had begun. The end of the world was in sight.


	16. Bright the Blade

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I came across an interesting discussion on Birthsigns in the Elder Scrolls Wikia, so I'm incorporating it into my head-canon (that each birthsign corresponds to a month). For story purposes, both Birthsigns and Standing Stone blessings exist.

…

**Bright the Blade**

Winterhold, 19th Frostfall 4E 201

"_Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."_

Having just killed blue-white streaks of magical mayhem with Farkas, J'zargo and a couple teachers at the College of Winterhold, Lia raised her head to the sky as it thundered. "What the hell does that mean?" she asked of anyone able to answer.

"That's the Greybeards. Guess Brom made it to High Hrothgar," Farkas observed softly.

J'zargo's ears perked up. "This one remembers the word Dovah Kin from Nirya's diary," he confirmed.

"Dragonborn…" Lia sighed, rubbing the seamed scar on her cheek as Kai Wet-Pommel strode towards them, looking pissed.

"Blade," he said curtly to Lia. "We need to talk."

Lia regarded the blond Stormcloak commander sourly. "We need to make sure these damned things are dead first," she corrected.

Kai grunted in reluctant agreement. "Fine. But then we're talking."

They made sure of the things, which had crystallised into soul gems much to the mages' delight. "We might be able to use these to suck out the energy from those damned shields," Faralda observed.

"Shields?" Kai asked dangerously.

Arniel Gale, used to lecturing people, happily answered the Stormcloak. "That bastard Ancano's killed the Arch-Mage and bonded with a powerful artefact. We need to stop him or… well…"

"The Thalmor get their wish of ending existence," Lia finished, her own study of the arcane and knowledge of the Thalmor allowing her to draw her own conclusion. "Bastards. This takes precedence over Kodlak's search, Farkas."

The warrior nodded easily. "I agree."

"J'zargo was tasked by Savos Aren to travel to Labyrinthian," the Khajiit mage, of whom she was becoming quite fond because he reminded her of the time she spent in Elseweyr, admitted reluctantly. "This one did as you suggested and found himself tasked with many errands."

Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard, emerged from the College's gates to overhear J'zargo. "I have something you'll need," she said tersely, thrusting an overlarge iron torc at the surprised Khajiit. "Savos told me to give you that before he died. Well, he said 'give it to the person going to Labyrinthian…'"

"Need help?" Lia quickly asked, trying to avoid Kai's gaze. Had he discovered who she was? That would be… awkward. To say the least.

J'zargo shook his head slowly. "This one will need a good mage. Onmund can come with me."

"Hate you," she muttered in Khajiit, earning a laugh from the cat-man.

"You have the situation under control?" Kai demanded of Mirabelle.

"It's contained for now." Onmund arrived with a pack, which he tossed at J'zargo. "Don't stand around, apprentices! Go!"

Mirabelle's voice cracked like a whip and the two nodded grimly. Lia noted that much of their youth had gone, no doubt lost with Savos Aren's death. _Damn, he was a good man for an Altmer._

When they were gone, the Master Wizard looked to Kai. "Evacuate the town," she commanded. "I don't know if it will help, but every last mage in these walls will do their best to stop Ancano."

She, Faralda and Arniel ran for the gates, leaving the three non-mages standing around awkwardly. "You heard the woman," Lia told Kai, injecting the note of command she'd heard Titus use so often. "Get moving!"

It took a lot of yelling and browbeating, but eventually they fell back to Whistling Mine, much to Korir's fury. The man was actually frothing at the mouth, cursing every mage from here to Summerset, exclaiming that the end of the world was nigh. Evgir Unslaad, the locals called it. Season Unending. War without End.

"Shut. Up. Until I see the College explode or Alduin darken the sky with his wings, I'll assume the world won't end today," Lia snapped at the Jarl of Winterhold.

He ignored her, raging until Farkas gave him a pragmatic love-tap behind the ear, having already knocked out Thaena just in case. She loved that guy. He was so handy to have around.

Lia detailed soldiers to return to Winterhold and bring back cold weather survival gear and whatever else they could carry. There was no point going any further south because if that artefact exploded, nowhere would be safe.

Once things were as settled as they could be, Kai confronted her. "We need to talk," the Nord said stubbornly.

Lia led him to a spot out of earshot but within visual distance of Farkas and the others. "What is it?" she asked tersely. "It's been a long day, I'm bloody exhausted, and apparently the world's going to end one way or another and our fate lies in the hands of a smartarse Khajiit and/or a Dragonborn who won't even tell me his real name."

Kai blinked, then narrowed his gaze. "You don't know the identity of the Dragonborn?" he asked carefully.

"I know he's noble, educated, rather handsome and prone to getting buckets of water thrown on him when he irritates Eorlund Grey-Mane," she retorted, wondering why she'd added the bit about his looks when there was no way in hell Titus would ever allow her to go to another man without his permission whilst he lived.

Kai blinked once more, then barked a laugh. "I'd pay to watch that."

"Apparently his Voice unsettles the Skyforge or something." Lia shrugged. "I know as a Blade my first priority is the dragons, but I've gotten caught up in some business of the Companions. It's a perfect excuse to run around Skyrim without getting bothered by blowhard soldiers with nothing better to do."

It was becoming easier to call herself a Blade when she wore the katana openly. Farengar had called it an Oathblade, a weapon carried from Akavir itself by one of the original Dragonguard. Lia absently caressed the cord-wrapped hilt, regarding Kai sourly.

"Ulfric knows the identity of the Dragonborn," Kai finally admitted. "But he wants to know where you stand, Lia of Bruma."

"Where I stand? Interesting question," she mused, turning away from him to hide her expression. "I've lived both sides of the war, Kai. I know the Empire needs to remain united to defeat the Thalmor, but I don't deny the injustices of the White-Gold Concordat. Dibella knows Cyrodiil's suffered enough for it."

_I know that my son will one day inherit the Empire, if he survives, and it will be on him to defeat the Thalmor-_

"All the Thalmor that have infested Skyrim over the past ten years? We've had that since the end of the Great War," Lia continued grimly. "They broke the statue of Martin Septim, Kai! That's as blasphemous to your average Colovian as tearing down the statues of Talos was for you."

"Ulfric says that's what you get for rolling over and showing your belly to the Thalmor," Kai said, obviously repeating something he'd heard a dozen times.

"By the end of the Great War, forty percent of Cyrodiil's population was dead," Lia told him flatly, turning around to face the Nord. "And sixty percent of its warriors of fighting age. That's why most of the High Command, the Imperial ones, is old and the rest are non-Colovian; because the rest died in the Great War. Throw in a mass exodus for Hammerfell, High Rock and Skyrim, and the population of Cyrodiil is about half of what it was twenty-five years ago. Families are offered incentives to have children until the women die of overbearing; they're given Legion funerals for their sacrifice because money won't bring back mothers and wives. But it's still expected to happen."

She closed her eyes, recalling the forced gaiety of the Imperial Court, the pretence that everything was fine and the open ambition of those willing to serve Thalmor will. "We won the war but lost the peace because we didn't have the manpower to chase the bastards into the sea. And now we bleed out in Skyrim while the Altmer laugh and toast to our demise."

Lia opened her eyes again, fixing Kai with a harsh gaze. "Skyrim will be next. If the Sons of Snow perish, the world is lost. Have Imperial officials fucked up? Aye. But a Nord would burn on his funeral pyre for pride and let the rest of the world perish."

"Better to die fighting," Kai responded quietly.

"Perhaps. But a Colovian signs whatever paperwork he has to in order for the greater good and then gets around to arranging things in his own favour so his enemies will choke on their spite." She laughed softly. "Dibella knows we're good at it."

"You're a Nord, for all you look Imperial," the Stormcloak officer finally said. "I can even understand where you're coming from. But do you think we plan to stop with kicking the Empire out of Skyrim? No, we intend to rebuild our land and then take the fight to the witch-elves to show that not all men are fit to be slaves."

"In the unlikely event of that happening and me surviving the experience, I might even join you," she agreed with a chuckle. "Hell, I might even be more sympathetic to your lot if you weren't such flaming racist bastards."

Kai sighed. "I grew up in Windhelm and played with Dunmer children," he admitted softly. "I won't deny that there are a lot of Nords who treat other races like refuse for the crime of not being born of a Nord woman, but I would accept as shield-brother anyone who was willing to fight for Talos or even just against the Thalmor."

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Eight and One'?" Lia asked the Stormcloak.

"Only out of Imperial mouths," Kai admitted.

"Well, you hear someone blurt that, they believe in the divinity of Talos. The Eight are the original Divines, and the One is Talos, the Ascended Divine," Lia explained softly. "A lot of the Imperials you deride worship Him. They just do it quietly because of what will happen to their families if they're caught."

"It sounds like you lived it," Kai finally observed.

Lia ran her hand over the cord-wrapped hilt of the Oathblade. "I was the daughter of high-ranking Blades and was born during the Great War. They'd entered a shadow war with the Thalmor preceding the actual start of hostilities because they knew what threat the goldskins were; unfortunately, my grandfather had underestimated the Thalmor and overestimated his people's abilities. But even if they hadn't, they would have come for us because of our links to the Septim lineage and the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn."

It had been hard to piece together that information, from fragments in libraries and stories told by her uncle and Dar'saad, from offhanded comments from Titus and her own murky memories. "They would have come for my family in particular because even amongst the Aurelii, a clan descended from the Akaviri themselves, we were something else. My great-great-grandmother on my father's side was Aurelia Northstar. The Champion of Cyrodiil and a slew of other titles, including Grand Master of the Blades following Jauffre's demise. Until the fall of Cloud Ruler Temple, every Grand Master came from her line. My father was First Blade and my uncle Third. My grandfather was the last Grand Master."

She sighed, hand closing around the katana's hilt, now as familiar with it as the scar on her face despite lingering awkwardness. "I know little of my mother beyond the fact her name was Sigdrifa and she was ugly as sin."

"Your mother was Sigdrifa Stormsword, the last Shieldmaiden of Talos!" Kai breathed in awe. "You come from a mighty lineage indeed, for not even Ulfric or the Thalmor trouble her kin, the Norcs of Half-Moon Hold. Her youngest brother is chief there; he fought in the Great War alongside Ulfric and they call him the Foe-Reaper for his mighty orichalcum scythe."

Lia's hand tightened around the Oathblade's hilt until the cords cut into her bare hand. "Norc?"

"Half-Orc, half-Nord. Neither race is particularly impressed by them, regardless of which blood is dominant, but they hold one of the best parts of Skyrim with ebony and orichalcum mines and it's said they worship Talos and Malacath equally."

"I'm part-fucking-_Orc_!" Lia's voice rose; she couldn't get past that bit.

"Apparently so, if your mother's Sigdrifa." Kai smirked, enjoying her discomfort. "Mind you, you're considerably prettier than most of them."

"If the Companions find out, they'll kick me to the curb!" Then she remembered she'd be kicked out for the facial scar anyway…

"There's been Orc Companions before, Lia!" Farkas assured her, calling out. That man's hearing was ridiculously good.

"Not amongst the ones in Cyrodiil!" she retorted, mouth working quicker than her brain. "Orc women don't make good courtesans!"

_"Courtesan?_" Kai blurted. "You're a whore?"

"I'm a _Blade,_" she snarled. "One who just happened to spend some time as a courtesan."

Then she drew the Oathblade and set its tip at the Stormcloak commander's throat. "And you tell Ulfric that if he does _anything_ to fuck up the fight against Alduin, up to and including the keeping of the Dragonborn's identity from me, he's going to have a short conversation with the Grand Master herself."

Kai swallowed thickly though his eyes were unafraid. "You plan to make the Dragonborn the new Tiber Septim."

_Martin-!_ "If he wants to be, I can't stop him. But that's a conversation for another time." _And I think it'd about time I had a discussion with Brom and confessed a few things…_

"I'll pass word to Ulfric," Kai promised fervently. "We have mutual enemies, it appears."

"I have personal reasons to be loyal to the Empire," Lia admitted as she stepped back, sheathing her Oathblade. "But let's save the world before we fight over who should rule it, hmm?"

"Yes, ma'am!" Kai actually saluted and then returned to the camp, leaving her to brood over the bleak landscape of northern Skyrim.

_Titus is going to kill me,_ was her first thought. _Martin's going to be thrilled,_ was her second. _You're the leader of a one-person order,_ was her third.

But at no time did she actually question the words which had come out of her mouth. She was a Blade, the daughter of Blades (even if her mother was part-fucking-Orc!) and of a lineage of heroes. Sure, she was a scarred whore who could barely swing the katana she wore at her waist, but the Blades had hidden for too damned long. If the Thalmor were going to kill her, better to die on her feet with a weapon in hand than on her knees begging for mercy.

Then she fell to her knees, tears running down her face, and looked to the sky. And the first star she saw was the North Star, shining like a beacon from the Tower constellation, and the rosy edge of dawn creeping in from the east. The night had passed in terror and conversation as the world's fate hung on the edge.

_Northstar's taken and Dawnstar's a shitty little town with a spoilt brat of a Jarl,_ she thought ruefully, feeling the easing of something old and hard and painful with the tears that fell down her face. _Besides, I was born on Heart Day in Sun's Dawn._

She laughed, long and heartily. "I'm Lia," she said aloud. "The probably going to die by Thalmor self-proclaimed Grand Master of the non-existent Blades. I don't need a cognomen. There's only one of me after all."

Rising to her feet, she returned to camp in the coming light of dawn; crowned in it, bathed in it, her smile bright as the sun. Those who saw her, Stormcloak and Imperial alike, took heart from it. And like her, they realised that while the sun rose, the world kept on going.


	17. The Path of the Hunter

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Sorry for the slow update; been up to my eyeballs in moving and being without Internet for over a week. Skipping A Blade in the Dark because Delphine annoys me; the Thalmor embassy mission will be altered significantly. I'm also screwing with canon concerning werewolves because I can, tying two minor quests into it. And yes, it's a little rushed. I want to try and get as much cranked out for NaNoWriMo before the 30th.

…

**The Path of the Hunter**

The Rift, 24th Frostfall 4E 201

"The Jerall Mountains."

Farkas could almost taste the longing in Lia's voice as she gestured to the mountains which divided Skyrim from her native Cyrodiil. Three days of hard travel had brought them here, Lia leaving Winterhold to the mages in the wake of Ancano's madness. If they hadn't dug up the damned Eye of Magnus, the Thalmor wouldn't have nearly ended the world. Something deep had settled into her bones the day she declared herself Grand Master of the Blades; she'd grown into acceptance of herself.

They'd avoided Whiterun because Farkas still wasn't up to dealing with the schism in the Circle. Both sides had made excellent points and Kodlak deserved the afterlife he wished for, but Farkas _liked_ the beast blood. He just didn't like the idea of being a hunting beast for Hircine on his demise.

"You actually miss it?" the werewolf asked, trying to make conversation. The Blade had been withdrawn, even taciturn, since Winterhold; even though J'zargo and Onmund had done most of the work putting Ancano down, both the Companion and Lia had their hands full containing the creatures which had spilt out as the walls between worlds had shuddered in the Eye's fell wind. Farkas had smelt the stench of Oblivion and the moisture of Sovngarde's mists in one breath, neither calling to him the way the breeze of a warm summer's day did.

"I never really liked the Imperial City, but Bruma…" Lia sighed wistfully, tracing the outline of the mountains against the cold winter sky. Her fingers missed a peak, detailing a nasty black cloud, and the Blade swore viciously. She'd learned how to recognise bad weather.

Contrary to popular belief, _all_ the senses of a werewolf were enhanced; Farkas peered through the mists of the Rift and saw the faintest curl of smoke. "We're too far from Riften to outrun that storm an' I'm not shelterin' in another tomb," he told her. "I can see smoke up there. Might be a hunter or a bandit's camp."

Lia somehow managed to make a smirk look ladylike. "Either way, it's shelter. The last pack of bandits we ran into left a rather good quiver of steel arrows."

She was still a lousy fighter compared to a senior Companion but days on the road using the Oathblade had allowed her to become barely adequate (in Farkas' eyes) with the Akaviri weapon. He couldn't fault her persistence in training and tending her blades, but it was obvious that she was no fighter. Kind of ironic given whom her parents were.

"Let's go up there," he agreed, and struck off on the game trail that led in the general direction of the mountains.

An eerie cry echoed above them a little while later; a shadow, bat-winged and ominous, sailed lazily on the wind currents towards a nearby mountain. "Dragon," Lia whispered nervously. "Not to be offensive, but-"

"I don't pick fights with things that can eat me whole," Farkas admitted. "At least not without Brom here."

"Agreed." She tugged him into a bush and they watched the predator fly away to settle on a roost carved with a dragon's head. When it had curled up to sleep, Lia pulled out her map and marked it, like she had with every wall of words or dragon's bed she'd seen.

Because of the delay, it was pouring wet when they reached the source of the wood smoke, a shack built from Jerall ash and hidden cunningly in a small fertile cleft in the mountainside itself. Farkas banged on the door, knowing that any decent Nord would let them spend the night under the laws of hospitality.

The door cracked open to reveal a line of ancient scarred face and a gimlet eye. "If you're here to tell me about those Imperial Divines, piss off!" an aged but still strong voice commanded.

"We're here because it's wetter than Kyne's tears outside," Lia responded politely, that little coaxing tone to her voice that usually got her what she wanted. "We'll be on our way in the morning, I promise. And if that's too much trouble, we ask leave to use the canvas shelter where the firewood is-"

"Don't be ridiculous, girl," the man responded gruffly as he opened the door fully. "You've invoked the name of Kyne. Only Nords know that name."

"You follow the old gods," Farkas observed as the grizzled old hunter stepped back to allow them inside.

"Indeed." That gimlet gaze fixed on Farkas, narrowing, and somehow he knew that the man could sense the beast blood. One predator always knew another. "So, the tales about the Companions being servants of Hircine are true."

"We still protect Skyrim!" Farkas retorted as Lia's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Well, most of us-"

The hunter waved his hand. "I fault no man for choosing the path of the hunt, I only mourn that so many are lost to Kyne through either the Daedra or those upstart so-called Divines."

"Forgive my ignorance, as I only know Kynareth's Nord name through my mother's stories, but can someone explain what you two mean?" Lia asked hesitantly as she set down her pack by the fire.

"Bruma?" the hunter, who hadn't given his name, queried. At Lia's cautious nod, the old man shook his head slowly. "Don't preach about Talos to me, girl."

"I'm Dibellan, but I'm genuinely curious about Kyne," the Blade responded with a smile. "I won't preach. I'm no priestess, after all."

"The Lady of Joys, eh?" The hunter shrugged before turning to stoke the fire. "Kyne and Shor's youngest daughter. Better than that false God Talos."

"Gran'pa?" A dark-haired boy stuck his head outside of a small sleeping alcove shielded by a leather curtain.

"Guests, Haming. Go to sleep, lad."

"I can't. I imagine the dragon an'-" He began to cry and in a heartbeat, Lia was by his side, holding him with a mother's instinct.

"Helgen?" she mouthed in the old man's direction. At his slow nod, her turquoise eyes hardened.

"Haming, little hunter, the Dragonborn _has_ come," she murmured as she hugged the boy tightly. Farkas recalled that she'd mentioned a son a time or two, but the boy was back in Cyrodiil. Maybe that was why she missed the place so much. "And already the dragons fear the hunter of their kind."

_Scars or not, that woman's voice can make a man do whatever she wants,_ Farkas thought in awe as Lia hushed the boy by humming the tune to _The Dragonborn Comes._

"I'm Froki," the hunter said softly, watching her. "Is it true?"

"I'm Farkas, an' yeah. The Dragonborn's a whelp in the Companions," the werewolf confirmed. "An' no, he ain't getting' the wolf blood. He's bad enough with dragon's blood."

Froki smirked. "I bet."

"Dovahkiin means 'Dragonborn'," Lia was telling Haming, who'd quietened down a bit and was watching her raptly. "But it also means 'Dragon-Hunter-Born'. I bet Alduin's already scared."

Haming's expression turned fierce. "I hope the Dragonborn kills him!"

"He will, I promise." Lia leaned over and kissed the top of Haming's head. "Now go to sleep, little hunter, and dream of a great blond warrior in shining steel plate killing the black dragon so that you foretell his victory."

The boy nodded and fell asleep a lot faster than Farkas would have expected.

"I used a minor charm spell on him," Lia admitted softly to Froki. "When the trauma becomes too much for him, he'll weep for a bit, then calm down and sleep. It will let him work out his grief."

"Strange to see one skilled in the Clever Craft with a blade," Froki noted, forcing Farkas to remember that the ancient name for magic was.

"She's a Blade," Farkas explained before Lia could.

"Huh. Thought the goldskins had killed you all." Froki shrugged again. "If they'd relied on Kyne instead of Talos-"

"Kyne, in the old Nord ways, is the warrior widow of Shor, the Mother of Men, who breathed us from the sky," Farkas told her.

"Aye, that she is," Froki said approvingly as he gestured to a kettle of meat-thick pottage. "Eat up, the pair of you. You must be freezing."

It was cramped in the tiny shack, Lia opting to curl up in a corner, wrapped in a ratty bear fur, and fell asleep instead of eating. Farkas, who was always restless because of the beast blood, ate a bowl of pottage and watched Froki fletch arrows. "We've got steel ones for a guest-gift," he offered.

The old hunter shook his head. "I don't hunt bears or sabre cats these days," he admitted wearily. "I'm old and soon I will join Kyne."

"You worry for the boy," Farkas observed softly, watching the way the hunter's eyes tracked towards his grandson.

"I wish his father had been a hunter instead of a damned brewer." Froki half-sighed, half-growled. "I wish I would have time to take him on the Trials of Kyne. But I won't."

"I'm sorry," Farkas said sincerely. "We could take him to Riften-"

"No grandson of mine will go to that hellhole," Froki interrupted flatly. "But enough of my woes, Companion. What puts the hangdog expression on your face? Is it the pretty Akaviri?"

Farkas barked a laugh. He and half the male Companions had made eyes at Lia, even after she'd cracked Vilkas' nuts for him, but she'd ignored it. From what she'd intimated a time or two, she was involved with someone important in the Imperial Court. Probably a noble or something. "She ain't interested. Belongs to another man."

Then he sighed and spoke to Froki frankly, laying out his problems and Kodlak's desire for a cure. The old hunter nodded slowly, making noises here and there, and Farkas felt good about getting this burden off his back for all he was supposed to keep the Circle's secret. They kept their voices to avoid waking Lia and Haming; by the time it was done, the storm had passed.

Finally Froki sucked air through a missing front tooth thoughtfully. "You knew after the first Harbinger to make this deal with Hircine that it was a bad thing, yet you kept on doing it. Why?"

"Made us better fighters, I guess?" Farkas shrugged. "It became part of the requirements of joinin' the Circle."

"And now two of them are for curing it, two against, and you're on the middle." Froki's gaze was sharp. "What do you like about being a werewolf, Farkas?"

The werewolf sighed, looking into the dim fire. "Nothin' better than runnin' under the moon, bein' on the plains. I like havin' the strength to protect people. Skjor an' Aela told me it had to be done, so me an' Vilkas became werewolves. But Vilkas don't like it, 'cause it makes him pissy, an' Kodlak wants Sovngarde. But Skjor and Aela hate their pack bein' broke up, though they won't stop us."

"Some people delight in the chasing down of prey, the slaughter, the taste of adrenaline and blood in their mouth," Froki observed quietly.

"Sounds like Aela an' Skjor."

"Some hunters are like that. They're butchers, killers, at heart. Others… They hunt to provide for their families and never take what they don't need." Froki smiled gently. "A good hunter cares as much for the land and the beasts as he does for the people."

"I only use the beast form when I have no choice," Farkas admitted softly.

Froki nodded sympathetically. "And you fear losing it because you won't be able to protect those you love."

The werewolf shuddered as the hunter hit the nail on the head. "Yeah…"

Froki's eyes tracked to Lia. "You in love with her?"

"Lia?" Farkas sighed. "Good woman. But too many secrets an' shadows for all she's a whelp."

"Blades are generally like that." Froki sighed. "I'd hoped, seeing her with Haming and talking to you, that you two could raise my grandson in the old ways. He needs parents, not an old man who can barely hunt."

"As I said, Lia belongs to another man, a powerful one in Cyrodiil. One so powerful she fears cheatin' on him. But she's a pretty good friend, for all her secrets an' shadows. I think she hasn't told me because it isn't that she doesn't trust me, it's…"

"She wants to protect you." Froki pursed his lips. "What brings you to the Rift?"

"Lia's trackin' dragon burial sites." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth.

"None of my business, eh?" Froki sighed again. "You're a good hunter, Farkas, for all you fight for honour and glory. You know something of the old ways. I think… you could be the one."

Farkas warmed his hands over the fire. "The one?"

"The one I can pass Kyne's Token too, if you can complete the Trials," Froki replied gruffly. "I admit, I'd rather someone other than a werewolf, but you're the best I can get."

The hunter leaned forward and told Farkas of seven animal spirits scattered across Skyrim, spirits which were servants of Kyne and dedicated to Her. If Farkas could hunt and slay them, he would be found worthy of Kyne's Token and maybe even attract the notice of the goddess Herself. "She's fickle as the wind, Shor's warrior widow, but maybe she'll take pity on you," Froki finished quietly. "If nothing else, you might find your own answers on the way."

Farkas looked to Lia. "Do I have to do it on my own?"

"It's best that you do."

The werewolf growled. He wanted to do this. But he had to stay with Lia-

"The battle against Alduin isn't yours," Lia said from her place in the corner; in the dim firelight, Farkas could see her eyes glinting like a Khajiit's. "Night Eye, a variant of a Khajiit magic."

"Were you awake the whole time?" Farkas demanded, hurt she'd eavesdropped.

"I woke up when the rain stopped," the Blade admitted. "You should go on this sacred hunt, Farkas. Talos may call Himself Stormcrown, but it is Kyne who calls the wind. And our arrival here is… too convenient."

"Shield-Sibs watch each other's' backs," Farkas protested, albeit weaker than he should.

"I'll be in Riften and if I need to leave, I'll travel by carriage," Lia promised, her voice coaxing. "You need to do this. Froki has a point."

Farkas growled in a mixture of exasperation and eagerness. Truth be told, since he'd become a Companion, he'd been responsible for other people and following their orders. Having some time to himself would be wonderful. "Fine, you've convinced me. But what are you gonna tell Kodlak?"

"The truth." Lia pulled the rug tighter around herself. "There are things I can't tell you, Farkas, because it is very literally treason to do so." She looked sadly at the sound-asleep Haming. "Brom's got Irileth and Athis with him and I need to find an old Blades loremaster. This hunt shouldn't take more than a week or so, especially with your… abilities."

"If you're leavin' Riften, it's straight to Whiterun," he ordered the Blade.

Her turquoise eyes glinted with amusement. "Yes, Harbinger."

"Never gonna be that. Not smart enough."

"You're smart enough," she told him. "Better you than Vilkas."

Farkas flushed at the compliment, even if she was bagging his brother a bit. "You'd make a good Harbinger," he told her.

"I can't be," she replied, sounding oddly regretful. "Now get some sleep. You've got a big hunt up ahead."

The werewolf grinned at her. "Yeah, thanks, Shield-Sister."

He felt bad about leaving Lia behind, but from the sounds of it she wanted some time to herself too. Maybe even Froki was right. Maybe he could find something about himself and his place in the pack – Circle. Maybe Kyne would take pity on him somehow. All he had to do was try.

…And it would be good to hunt for himself, not others.


	18. Eavesdropping and Revelations

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! And thanks to thu' for covering my butt with dialogue. Grahvothnivaas means 'Battle-Without-Fear'. Tayfunvahzah means 'Tale-Told-True'. Thank firelordstark for the bit about Elisif. I wanted to keep Martin a mystery to Lia for longer, but he gave me this big cheeky grin and went 'Nope. I want my Mama.' I couldn't resist.

…

**Eavesdropping and Revelations**

Ivarstead, 25th Frostfall 4E 201

The dragon landed near Honeystrand Cave, squashing the sick cave bear that hadn't hibernated like it should. He roared a challenge to the skies, knowing full well that the souls of two dovahhe were nearby, ripe for the taking. It was Evgir Unslaad and the time of Alduin's ascension. To Grahvothnifaas would fall the honour of defeating Paarthunax, ancient, aged and treacherous, and the upstart joor who would dare call himself dovah.

Predictably the joorre of this place started fleeing into their homes, praying to their false gods when they would do better to pray to the dovahhe like they once did. Grahvothnifaas recalled the delicious taste of fear-flavoured meat and idly wondered what the Dovahkiin's would taste like. Perhaps with that powerful soul roiling in his gut, he could take on Alduin himself and emerge victorious, earning his rightful place as first amongst the dovahhe.

It must be admitted that Grahvothnifaas was as close to stupid as any dovah could get.

Amidst the fleeing crowd strode forth two warriors, one a Nord clad in a banded iron breastplate with a horned helmet that concealed the top half of his face and the latter an elf-woman of Morrowind clad in light leather armour with a bow that gleamed gold. Calm and deadly, they left the town and followed the source of the challenge, their purpose clear. Grahvothnifaas roared again, this time in delight. They were going to make it too easy for him.

In fact, the dovah was _so_ confident that he remained on the ground as the warriors crossed the bridge, stopping to peer through the trees.

It must be admitted that Grahvothnifaas _was_ an idiot.

"I am Grahvothnifaas. Nox hi fah kipraan. Thank you for the meal, Dovahkiin."

Let it not be said that despite his stupidity, the dovah was without courtesy.

"I am Junseahrol, the King of the Hill. You should leave now before I add your skull to that of Numinex's above my throne."

The Dovahkiin's voice was calm, resonant and rich. His hand, wrapped in leather and iron, tightened around his axe as Grahvothnifaas snorted in surprise. The descendant of Geinmiin, the vanquisher of Numinex?

Then the dovah shook his head and retaliated with a blast of fire that was blocked by a shield painted yellow with a horse's head upon it. "I like my meals cooked!" Grahvothnifaas taunted as he came closer.

The elf-woman melted into shadow as the dovah focused on the Dragonborn, who still maintained that incredible calm. Most Nords were loud and boisterous, eager for the battle, but this one was cold and stoic as the mountains of Keizaal.

"I will make for a tough old meal," the warrior responded. "I warn you again, leave or die."

Grahvothnifaas bared his teeth in a mocking smile. "Run, Dovahkiin. It will make for a better hunt."

Then he roared in pain as the elf-woman emerged from the shadows and leaped onto his back, dual ebony daggers flashing as they pierced scale and bone just above the wings. Grahvothnifaas crashed to the ground, his head rearing up and left eye sprouting an arrow from another dark elf, this one a man, who'd emerged from the cave with a disgusted expression upon his face.

"You should have left," the Dragonborn advised coldly as he hefted his war-axe.

"You fought without honour!" the dragon responded, unable to draw breath for a defiant Shout.

"Honour? You come to my land and terrorise my people… and you have the gall to speak to me of honour!" The Dragonborn's voice had risen in a cold fury, punctuating every word with a chop of his axe through Grahvothnifaas' neck. "The only honour you will have is your soul in my Voice, your skull in my hall!"

The watchers at the Throat of the World turned their eyes away from the grisly scene. Amongst the dovahhe, the weak and stupid died while the stronger prospered. Their younger brother had earned his fate.

"Do you think he will accept our allegiance?" the smaller dragon, cream-white with ice-blue eyes, asked of the battered elder who had lurked here since the beginning of joor history.

If dovahhe could shrug, Paarthunax would do so. "Watch and wait, Tayfunvahzah. Soon he will come to me. Then we shall see."

"And if we die?"

"Then our souls will go towards Alduin's destruction. All will be as it must."

Cold comfort, those words, but the dovahhe were poor at offering any comfort at all.

…

Riften, 26th Frostfall

"If someone were hiding, where would the best place be?"

Balgruuf had just entered the Bee and Barb when a familiar voice made him grin beneath his helmet. Irileth had gone to see if her contact with the Thieves' Guild was still around while Athis was checking up on a cousin of his who lived in the town. Since he wasn't known outside of Mistveil Keep, he should be fine by himself for a few hours so long as he kept his head down. But it appeared Talos had smiled upon them by providing an ally.

He scanned the interior of the surprisingly homey inn; Keerava and Talen-Jei might be irascible sorts, but they ran a good inn, almost like the Bannered Mare back home. Lia, wearing similar armour to what Irileth preferred, was leaning against the bar talking to Keerava; he looked around again but found no sign of Farkas. On the second glance at Lia, he noticed a rough bandage wrapped around one hand and dried blood on her armour.

"The Ratway Warrens," Keerava responded curtly. "Now are you going to buy something? If not, hit the road."

"A bottle of Alto wine, a bottle of ale, and a bowl of fish stew," Lia requested dryly. "It's been a long trip."

"She'll also be taking a room here, as will I," Balgruuf told the Argonian innkeeper as he approached them. "Hello, Lia."

"Brom?" The Blade glanced in his direction. "Where are Irileth and Athis?"

"I was about to say the same concerning Farkas," the former Jarl countered.

"He's doing some… personal business. He'll be back within a week or so."

"Same with Irileth and Athis, though they'll be sooner than that." He smiled at her warmly, noting the line between her brows from frowning or squinting, and murmured into her ear, "We need to talk privately."

A shiver ran through her body as she nodded in silent reply. Balgruuf nodded to Keerava, who was watching them with a jaundiced eye. "A room for me and her and one for the two red-haired Dunmer, one male and the other female, who'll be along soon enough."

He tossed her a small bag of coins, which the Argonian caught neatly. "Bring her food and drink up to us and throw in some meat and Honningbrew mead, if you would."

"Of course," Keerava responded, looking a little more pleased. "Do you want the change from this?"

"Keep it. Irileth and Athis will want food too." He swept his arm around the unresisting Lia, who'd caught onto the ruse (she was hardly stupid, after all), and drew her towards the stairs as Talen-Jei gave them directions to the room with the double bed. She was warm and pliant against him, breath ghosting against his ear, reminding him of what her profession once was. Balgruuf wondered if his attraction to her was mutual.

But once the door was shut behind them, Lia stepped out of his arms and turned away, hugging herself. "Ulfric Stormcloak knows who you really are," she said tersely in Colovian. "But I don't."

Balgruuf allowed himself a soft curse. "He's not stupid, regrettably. But if you want to know who I am-"

"You're due some full disclosure from me," Lia interrupted with a sigh. "So, who first?"

He exhaled heavily. "I am Balgruuf the Greater," he admitted softly. "I faked my death so I could focus on Alduin."

Lia sighed again. "Only the best candidate for the High King's throne, given that Elisif is… not likely up to the job."

"Is Lia your real name?" he asked, afraid to discover otherwise.

"It's… short. Short for Aurelia. Aurelia Too-Tall, favoured consort of our lord and Emperor, dispatched to Skyrim to try and sort this mess out diplomatically." Lia's voice was chagrined, bitter and wry all at once. "But Ancano, an Altmer mage, called a storm and sunk the ship I was on."

Her fingers rubbed across the seamed scar which barely marred her face. Saadia, in the Bannered Mare, had worse scarring. "Not that I'm much use now as a consort."

Balgruuf took a deep breath and exhaled heavily again, stifling the flash of pain. She'd never actually lied to him and with them being behind Stormcloak lines half the time, he could understand her caution. "Are you really a Blade?" he finally asked.

"Yes. For good or for ill, I'm resurrecting the Blades." Lia's smile was melancholic. "All I can do is pray my son will be kept out of it. His name is Martin. And yes, he's very much like his Septim namesake. My lord chose his name deliberately even as he chose me with equal reason."

_A Nord Blades-blood named after the Imperial bastard who saved the world… Titus Mede wants him to lead the next war against the Thalmor._ Balgruuf growled, the edge of the Thu'um in the sound. "Were you given a choice?" he finally asked.

Lia blinked at him. "Why does it matter? He's the Emperor and my son is heir. It's an honour beyond description."

He could read her answer between the lines. "Titus Mede can go to Oblivion," he said harshly.

"Bal-Brom!" Her voice was shocked. "He's-"

"Another manipulative Colovian bastard," the former Jarl interrupted. It explained so much about Lia.

"He's the father of my child," she responded fiercely. "For Martin, there is little I won't do."

He recalled Idgrod's words. "I was told to tell you that your son isn't dead, regardless of what you might hear," he told her, trying to throttle down his anger. "I don't know anything more than that. A kinswoman gave me the message."

Fear, grief and worry flashed in those turquoise eyes before she took a deep shuddering breath. "Thank you. I'm glad I got that message before… well."

Lia squared her shoulders and regarded him soberly. "Your Dragonborn might, linked with Elisif's claim to the High King's throne, would be enough to give the Thalmor pause."

Balgruuf growled again. "Alduin is not even dead and you're already talking politics."

"Several days ago I was in Winterhold where the world almost fucking ended!" she hissed. "Ancano, the bastard who tried to drown me, got his hands on a powerful magical artefact. If not for the College and the new Arch-Mage, we'd all be dead!"

"I wondered what that was," Balgruuf mused, rubbing his beaky nose. A few days ago, the dragon within had paused, fearful of something which was more sensation than noise, Time itself thrumming like an over-taut lute wire. Now he knew why.

Lia was subtly shaking, her turquoise eyes wide in remembered terror. "That's why the Thalmor banned Talos," she whispered. "Because He's the lynchpin of the world and-"

"…And so they might try to stop me from killing Alduin," Balgruuf observed musingly, reaching out to clasp Lia on the shoulder to calm her a bit. When she didn't flinch but instead leaned a little into the touch, he tentatively caressed her with a thumb. "But they will have a tough time between me, you, Irileth and Farkas, not to mention the rest of Skyrim."

"The Stormcloaks think I'm setting you up to be the next Tiber Septim," she told him hoarsely. "I, ah, didn't correct them."

The dragon within liked the idea of conquering the world as the last Dragonborn had done, but the Jarl was wiser to understand the difficulty and turmoil. "Do you like the idea of me taking your son's birthright?" he asked softly.

Her eyes glinted with unshed tears. "I would rather my son safe than an Emperor. Besides, I couldn't stop you if you wanted it."

"It is… tempting," he admitted. "To see the Nords respected again… To see the enemies of the world quail before my Thu'um… So tempting."

Her flesh was warm beneath his gloved hand, turquoise eyes glowing in the candlelight. "Balgruuf," she breathed. "I wish…" Lia closed her eyes and shook her head, stepping away from him.

He let her go, knowing the shadow of Titus Mede lay over them both. "Where did the wound on your hand come from?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Wolves near the gate. I got cocky and relaxed my guard and…" She shrugged beneath the leather. "I need to find lighter armour. Or learn how to cast spells. Or hire a bodyguard."

"Or stay with me," he told her. "This fight… I will need you, Irileth and Farkas with me at the end. I know this much."

Lia was unwinding her hand-bandage, preparing to clean it out with wine. He caught her free hand and reached for the mead. "This is better."

"Only because it tastes so horrible the wound-rot would sooner die than endure it," she quipped as she laid out her hand, which had a nasty-looking bite on it. Then she was gritting her teeth as he poured mead on the wound and began to tend it.

It would leave a scar but nothing else. Balgruuf looked down at her hand, now marked by a faded gold line, and felt the rasp of callus against his own. Then he reluctantly released it with a sigh. "Who are you looking for?" he asked. "I thought you were looking for dragon lore."

Lia looked outside, lips pursing. "I am. One of the old loremasters may be alive, if I can find him in the sewers."

"That would be… good." Good for more reasons than he would articulate, even to himself. Between him as the Dragonborn, Lia as the mother of the Imperial heir (he didn't want to think about the rest of it), Irileth as the Nerevarine and Farkas as potential Harbinger, they were most likely the group with the greatest personal power in Skyrim – and in Tamriel, only the Elder Council and the Thalmor would hold more power than they.

_"Your Dragonborn might, linked with Elisif's claim to the High King's throne, would be enough to give the Thalmor pause."_

In Skyrim, Elisif was a child as she hadn't undergone the rite of killing an ice wraith. Her marriage to Torygg _was_ lawful as she'd been born in the Imperial City, not the land of the Nords, but in Balgruuf's eyes she was still a mere slip of a girl. Being literally half his age didn't help matters either.

Balgruuf gestured to the bed; Lia took the chair and he sighed inwardly. She was like a skittish doe, still too frightened of what had passed between them with his touch, but he needed to know more about her. "So, tell me of Martin," he murmured. Through her stories of her son, he could learn more of the mother. "How old is he?"

"Eight," she admitted. "I was sixteen or seventeen when I had him. Records were… hard to keep in the Great War."

"I… see. How old is adulthood in Cyrodiil?"

"Depends on the race, but it's generally considered a year past the first moon's blood for a girl, and two years past first seed for a lad." Lia dolefully stirred her cold horker stew. "Companions of Cyrodiil don't start their formal service until sixteen, but they're usually selected at twelve."

"So, you were…"

"No! I was noticed by the Emperor at fifteen or sixteen and came to the training late." Lia shrugged. "It's a life behind me now. I will have to juggle being Grand Master of the Blades and Martin's mother."

"I was told that I am the Last Dragonborn," Balgruuf observed dryly. "What will the Blades do when I am gone?"

Lia raised her turquoise gaze to meet Balgruuf's. "There are a lot of threats out there. Vampires. Rogue werewolves. Necromancers. The Thalmor. I think come what may, the Blades will be kept busy for a while yet."

"You would replace the Vigilants of Stendarr?" Balgruuf had been rocked by their slaughter.

"Well, their inflexibility didn't help them. The Blades foundered because they were so focused on finding a Dragonborn to serve they forgot about the other threats to men and mer." Lia sighed. "I'm hoping that once Alduin is dead, I can hand leadership to someone else and focus on Martin. Titus is… old. And my son will be the one on whom the Thalmor's wrath falls."

_They have come to _my_ land and threatened _my_ people,_ Balgruuf thought grimly. _They would take our gods and put Skyrim through what they've done to Cyrodiil. Already they came close to destroying us all in Winterhold. They know nothing of wrath compared to what I will unleash upon them when Alduin is dead._

The King of the Hill's fist slowly clenched. They needed to speed up either the destruction of Alduin or the unification of Skyrim. He couldn't afford divided attention. Hrongar was proving himself competent as Jarl of Whiterun and for some unknown reason, Ulfric had backed off significantly. "Tomorrow, we find this loremaster. Then we plan."

"For what?" Lia asked, drawn from her own brooding reverie.

Balgruuf smiled grimly. "The end of all… this."

The Blade caught his gaze, held it, and then nodded slowly. "Your will, my deeds," she said formally, bowing her head deeply.

The dragon in him was appeased by her show of subservience. The man in him wondered what would happen if she were caught between Titus Mede and himself. But that was a worry for another day.

…

The Ragged Flagon

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Irileth muttered in an aside to Karliah as they walked into the Ragged Flagon, home of the Thieves' Guild. The granddaughter of Barenziah's face was shadowed by her hood, only the faint gleam of violet eyes visible. For her to be here was a death sentence.

"I have the proof," she observed with more calm than anyone should feel. "Besides, I have the Nerevarine with me."

"And here I thought Nocturnal's servants were sensible creatures," the aforementioned creature of prophecy muttered as Dirge, resident bullyboy of the Guild, wandered in their direction.

"This isn't a good place for strangers to drink at," the thug told them darkly, trying to protect an aura of menace. Irileth almost laughed at the oversized Nord.

"I am no stranger and I invoke the right of a Guild member to stand before the Masters and explain herself," Karliah responded in a clear voice that carried easily to the bar. "Delvin, Brynjolf, Vex, I present myself to you for judgment."

"Karliah." Brynjolf, a red-haired Nord, rose to his feet with a grim expression, hand sliding to a rather fine glass dagger. "Why shouldn't we just slit your throat and have Dirge dump you in the sewers now?"

"Because she's just presented herself for judgment. You have to try her first." This came from a bronze-skinned boy in shabby clothing sitting on a barrel, chewing on a bit of apple.

"Martin, lad, we're not the fucking Jarl's court here," Delvin chided.

"No, but if we're not fair to Guild members, how can we trust them?" the boy pointed out. His accent was pure Colovian noble, self-assured and shrewd despite his young age.

"…Little bastard," Brynjolf muttered. "Tonilia, stop teaching him Guild laws."

"Don't blame me. You brought him home," the Redguard woman retorted dryly. "Besides, not the kid's fault he's the smartest one in the room."

Martin grinned and Brynjolf frowned. "Get off that barrel like you're Jarl Muckety-Muck of Arsehold and go pick the locks in the training room, lad. I want to see every one open, including the Dwemer one."

"Yessir." Far from looking chastened, Martin looked eager as he jumped off the barrel and ran from the room.

"Fine, Karliah, you've got your trial. Better have a fucking good reason for killing Gallus," Vex, an almost albino Imperial, said sharply. "Who's your friend?"

"I am Irileth of the Vvardenfall chapter of the Thieves' Guild," the Nerevarine responded coldly.

"The only Irileth who was part of the Thieves' Guild in Morrowind was…" Delvin's eyes widened and he breathed a curse. "You really the Nerevarine?"

Irileth held out her hand bearing Moon-and-Star. "Wear it if you wish to test my claim."

Any thief worth his salt knew that only Nerevar Incarnate could wear that ring. Delvin shook his head quickly. "I'll take your word for it. But you look familiar…"

"I was huscarl to Jarl Balgruuf for a while." Irileth smiled grimly. "Karliah has told me she has evidence that the treachery which befell your last Guild Master came from another source. I have agreed to stand as her second so long as she isn't bullshitting me."

The Nightingale stepped forward and cleared her throat. Then she told the most fantastic story about Falmer ciphers and Mercer Frey, the Skeleton Key and the man ripping off the Guild. Understandably, the three Masters were highly suspicious until Tonilia suggested checking the vault. If Karliah was telling the truth, then there'd be nothing there.

The Guild's reaction was… interesting. By interesting, Irileth meant that entire new combinations of hitherto-thought impossible sexual acts between tools, animals, Falmer and Mercer Frey were invented and described on the spot by the Guild Masters. She hid a grin at their creativity and poached a few good phrases to use herself. She especially liked the dead trout, the grater and a pile of fire salts.

When the initial outburst was over, Brynjolf – who was apparently the coolest of the remaining Masters – looked to Karliah. "Break into his place and get whatever evidence you can. Whatever riches are in there belong to you. Think of it as weregild for the trouble you've been through."

"I shall. And then you and I and Delvin must speak." Karliah nodded and turned to Irileth, presenting a scroll with a flourish. "The names of every surviving Blade and location of every Word Wall I could find, Irileth."

The Nerevarine took it with a grim smile. "The Dragonborn and the Grand Master will make good use of this."

"The Dragonborn, lass?" Brynjolf asked. "So… it's the end times then?"

"Only if Brom falls."

The Masters exchanged glances and the redhead sighed. "I'll offer this one for free out of self-interest. Esbern, a crazy old Blade, lives in the Warrens."

"…Well. That saves me a significant amount of work." Lia observed dryly; Irileth turned around and used the dead trout, grater and fire salts phrase when she saw Balgruuf with the Blade.

"What is this, open night?" Vex asked sarcastically. "Who the hell are you?"

"The guy in the iron helmet is Brom, the Dragonborn and I'm Lia, Grand Master of the Blades," the bronze-skinned woman countered cheerfully. "We're just passing through to pick up a loremaster."

Brynjolf looked intently at Lia, eyes narrowed. "…You got a kid?"

Irileth noted that Lia's hand twitched towards her katana, but she forced herself to remain still. "Why are you asking, Guild Master?"

"Just curious." Brynjolf matched her stare for stare.

"I have a son. Named Martin. And if you ever leak that information, I will track you down and hamstring you before leaving you staked out in the sun for the nearest passing dragon," Lia vowed fervently.

Irileth's eyebrow shot up. The thief-child was Lia's son. "He's here. Learning to be a thief, I might add."

"And he's a bloody good one. Reckon he'll be Guild Master in fifteen years," Delvin said proudly. "Picked his own shackles in the prison wagon they had him in."

Lia's jaw rippled with tension. "Can I see him?"

"We're thieves, lass, not bastards. Martin!" Brynjolf bellowed for the boy, who emerged in short order with a flagon and cups in his hand.

"Here's the mead. I picked all the locks and got bored. You should let me try the Guild doors. If Mercer Frey can do it, so can I."

"Were you eavesdropping again?" Lia asked severely, eyes narrowed.

"Well, yeah, Mama. How else can I learn anything useful- MAMA!" Tarnished silverware went flying as the boy launched himself at his mother; now Irileth realised why he was so familiar.

Lia hugged him fiercely, breaking down then and there in front of the thieves, who looked a bit… awkward. Except for Delvin, who looked downright disappointed. "Does this mean we can't keep him?" the Guild Master asked plaintively.

Irileth looked to Balgruuf, whose eyes were narrowed thoughtfully. He raised his gaze and gestured, "I'll explain later."

The duo spoke in a polyglot of tongues; Irileth worked out the gist of their conversation, having learned all of the languages of Tamriel, and nearly cursed again as she realised that the political situation was worse than she thought.

Finally the Blade sighed and released her son. "The terrible thing is that here might be the safest place for him," she finally said. "Martin…I'm walking the path of Northstar, Julius Aurelius, Arius Aurelius and Rustem Aurelius. The World-Eater has come and…"

"And the Wheel turns on the Last Dragonborn," the boy finished with eyes far too old for his face. When Lia looked askance at him, he sighed. "Father had the Moth Priests teach me stuff. He said Alduin might return and…"

"Martin, lad, just who are you?" Brynjolf asked, gently but firmly. "If we're to be giving sanctuary-"

"My father is the Emperor and there's someone on the Elder Council who wants to steal his throne," Martin interrupted. Lia looked chagrined and proud at his poise; the thieves made noises of amazement and Balgruuf grunted. Interesting that he knew. "That's how I wound up in the prison wagon. They were going to sell me to the Thalmor, I think."

"Or more likely in the flesh markets of Morrowind," Irileth opined darkly. "Easier for a child to disappear that way."

"Titus Mede is old; he'll not live to see the boy take his throne," Balgruuf pointed out grimly. "And Cyrodiil will not survive a Regency, not with the Thalmor breathing down on them."

Lia took a deep, shuddering breath. "This is immaterial in the face of Alduin. We can decide what to do when the world isn't ending."

"Smart lass," Brynjolf said approvingly. "We'll watch the lad for you. Reckon he might even make a better thief than an Emperor."

"King of the Thieves sounds so much better than Emperor of Tamriel," Martin observed with a cheeky grin.

"Larceny's in his blood," Delvin agreed.

"Well, no shit. I'm Aurelii," Lia drawled sardonically, recovering her poise with the grace of a skilled courtier. But Irileth could see the strain in her eyes, the tension in her smile as she embraced Martin. "I'll visit when I can, sweetheart."

Martin stuck to his mother like a burr. "Can't you stay tonight? Please Mama!"

Lia looked at Balgruuf and the Dragonborn nodded slightly. Then he removed his helmet, much to Irileth's outspoken curse, and looked to Vekel the Man pointedly. "May we have some mead?"

"You look familiar," Brynjolf observed.

"I won't ask questions about your business if you don't ask any about mine," the former Jarl retorted.

"…Fair enough." Brynjolf looked to Vex. "Go drag Esbern out of his hidey-hole. Might as well save them the trouble."

Irileth knew the Guild was being generous because at the moment, they had two legends and the Imperial heir in their hideout. But they'd given sanctuary and damned well knew that the Dragonborn owed them one.

She sighed. Why did prophecy have to be so damned convoluted? _Politics, that's why,_ she thought sourly as she accepted a cup of sujamma from Vekel. And like it or not, if what she'd picked up from Lia's conversation with Martin was true, she'd need to wade right into the thick of it for the good of the Dunmer.

She really didn't need this shit and neither did Tamriel.


	19. Battō

Note: Thanks for reading. Battō means 'unsheathed sword' in Japanese. I'm taking some liberties with the voice of the Night Mother because I can.

…

**Battō**

The Ratway Warrens, 26th Frostfall

"How much did the Thalmor pay you?" Esbern demanded as he was dragged out of his room, the locks somehow magically picked by a violet-eyed Dunmer who reeked of Nocturnal's influence, and dragged towards the Ragged Flagon. Her compatriot, a red-haired Dunmer with the typical blood-red eyes, regarded him scornfully before looking up ahead. _She_ wore Azura's power strongly.

"I hope you know as much about dragons as you talk," she observed grimly.

"So the Thieves' Guild has betrayed its sanctuary then?" Esbern spat, hitting a rough stone wall instead of the Thief Dunmer.

"We have not." The violet-eyed woman spoke. "You've nothing to fear."

"This from the woman who's dragging me out of my home," the mage muttered.

The red-eyed Dunmer rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your help, Karliah."

"It's nothing. The Guild has promised aid and so you shall receive." The Dunmer looked significantly at her friend. "We all have a stake in this."

Esbern was dragged for a few minutes longer until he found himself unceremoniously dumped on the filthy floor of the Ragged Flagon, looking up at the three Guild Masters. "Mercer Frey finally sell me to the Thalmor?"

"The only thing Mercer Frey will be doing is squealing like a stuck pig when I kill him," Vex vowed before turning to someone he couldn't see. "You sure this is Esbern?"

A woman's throaty chuckle caught his attention. "He's a lot older but it's still him."

Then the voice's owner came into view and offered a hand. Mystified, Esbern accepted her help to stand before craning his neck to meet the warm, wise gaze of a scar-faced woman with a unique colouring that he recalled only because of who her parents were.

"Battō," she greeted, holding out the palms of her hands.

Esbern trembled and drew the wazikashi that had never left his side, wisely or unwisely, and laid it across the palms of his Grand Master. Her fingers curled around it, caressing the short blade with its rippling quicksilver sheen gently, before holding it out for him to take. The mage did so, lost for words.

"She just bid him to unsheathe his blade," Irileth was murmuring to Karliah and a bearded Nord with long platinum-blond hair. "It's a ritual of allegiance."

"Esbern, I still remember the honey cakes you snuck me during the siege of Cloud Ruler," Aurelia Too-Tall said fondly. "Of all the loremasters of the Blades, I'm glad you're alive."

She then turned to the blond man and performed the ten-second bow given only to Emperors… or Dragonborn. "Dammit, woman, don't do that!" the man growled as Esbern did his best to copy her actions.

"You just had to completely ignore every instruction I gave you," Aurelia complained. "You're supposed to accept the Blades' allegiance, Brom."

"He's… You're…" Esbern found himself weeping. "Oh Julianos, wise and knowing, thank you for letting me live to see the Dragonborn."

"Please don't die from sheer excitement," Irileth observed sarcastically. "We need the knowledge in your head."

"Irileth is the Nerevarine," Aurelia explained, rolling her turquoise eyes in exasperation.

"I'm spryer than I look," Esbern assured her, wiping at his face. "I'm just…"

"Happy to see me, I gather," Brom said wryly.

"Yes, yes!" Esbern took a shaky breath and tried to find the words to explain. "With you here, there's hope! The Aedra haven't given up on us!"

"Nor the Daedra," Karliah murmured.

"Take a seat and calm yourself," Aurelia advised. He wasn't surprised to see her wearing furs and leathers – it was winter in Skyrim, after all – but to see a genuine Oathblade on her hip… "Sounds like you know more about the Prophecy of the Dragonborn than we do."

Esbern took a deep breath, regarding his Grand Master grimly. "We must find Alduin's Wall. It's located in Sky Haven Temple, somewhere in the west of Skyrim-"

The door to the Ragged Flagon burst open, cutting off his sentence, and Esbern's worst nightmare stood, golden and terrible, in the doorway. "So. We have found a Blades enclave," announced a haughty Altmer male whose gold-edged black robes proclaimed his status as a Justicar. "Surrender now and we'll give you a quick death."

"Prepare yourselves for a fight," Karliah advised as she drew an ebony bow and a matching arrow. "The Thalmor will torture us all, Blade and Thief alike."

Esbern gestured, drawing forth a fire atronach from Oblivion itself, as Brom stepped forth with a grim smile. "Leave now and live," he advised.

"You're kidding me," the elf replied. "Who in Oblivion are you?"

"I am the Dragonborn." And Brom uttered three terrible words that propelled the Thalmor back into the soldiers in the narrow passage behind him, forcing the trio into the chamber where a mad murderer had once lived.

Though they were about to fight for their lives, Esbern murmured a prayer to Akatosh. There was hope yet.

…

"One good thing about living in the sewers, lass. Always a handy spot to hide bodies."

Lia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry I brought this trouble to you, Brynjolf."

"Don't be, lass. That Nurancar had gotten the path here out of one of our lads, Etienne. Poor sod had been taken and we assumed he was in jail." Brynjolf pursed his lips grimly despite the light easy eastern High Rock lilt of his voice. "We need to be sending a message to the Thalmor they don't mess with our own."

"Not until Mercer Frey is dealt with," Karliah said firmly. "We will need the full grace and favour of Nocturnal to take on Elenwen's people."

Lia allowed herself a muttered curse. "We need to go west, if Esbern's right. Tullius needs to be brought up to date concerning the Dragonborn situation, as much as Brom will permit, and he _definitely_ needs to know Martin is alive."

Delvin and Brynjolf exchanged a troubled glance. "Darling," the shaven-headed Breton thief began. "There's going to be… trouble… in Solitude soon."

"I'm not sure you should be telling her," Brynjolf warned. "The Dark Brotherhood doesn't like us meddling in their business."

Lia inhaled sharply. "What do you mean?"

Balgruuf, who'd just finished a bottle of mead after Shouting himself hoarse in the battle, moved to her right flank. Still unhelmeted, he was a fine example of Nord manhood with that platinum-blond hair and neat beard, the blue eyes which slanted her way, the sensual mouth that curved in a subtle reassuring smile.

"Someone on the Elder Council's hired the Dark Brotherhood for a big hit," Delvin finally said, reluctantly. "I can't say more than that, darling."

"Damn." Lia sighed. Biggest target in Skyrim was Tullius, so far as she knew. Unless Armaund Motierre, the Empire's premier diplomat, had been dragged in. Or it was Martin- "Is it my son?" she asked shakily.

Delvin quickly shook his head. "There's an… understanding… between us and them; we fence shit for them, they don't kill us, and we handle business matters internally."

Lia's eyes narrowed. "So long as Martin's a member of the Thieves' Guild, he's safe?"

"Well, from the Brotherhood, aye. But we expect him to earn his keep." Brynjolf's smile combined charm and grimness. "Sorry, lass, but that's how things are."

Lia's return smile was equally grim. "I'm Aurelii. I have no problems with the Guild."

Balgruuf growled, the edge of the Thu'um in his voice. "It could even be Elisif. The Silver-Bloods of Markarth are certainly capable of arranging things through an… intermediary."

Karliah shook her head. "I'm sympathetic and we will need to talk about a joint retaliation against the Thalmor later, Grand Master. But we need to worry about our own problems."

Lia smiled sharply at the violet-eyed Dunmer. "I get the hint. Let me say goodbye to Martin and we'll go back upstairs."

Her son had been hidden in the closest with a couple other orphans taken in by the Guild, his eyes wide with fear though his face was otherwise stoic. "Will you come back, Mama?" he asked pleadingly.

Lia felt her heart break at the grief he'd endured all because of his birth and the machinations of his father. "Death itself won't stop me," she promised fiercely, embracing him tightly. "No matter what happens, Martin, know that I will always love you."

He hugged her and for the first time ever in front of her son, she wept. Titus had failed to protect him and she couldn't stay. But she could help Balgruuf slay Alduin and then bring him… where? No doubt it was believed he was dead. What would happen to her son?

But she kept her doubts to herself, smiled one last time and exited the Flagon with Balgruuf, Irileth and Esbern. They had a world to save.

…

27th Frostfall

"For the price we're being paid, we could get proper beds," Irkand observed as he lounged at the bar, facing Delvin Mallory. The taste of violence and death, heavily flavoured by Altmer blood, lingered in the back of his throat. The Night Mother hummed tunelessly in his mind, sounding like Astrid when she was cooking, but her voice was always that of Aurelia's. Cicero had explained that the Unholy Mother spoke in the tongue of the spirit, using the voices of the women dearest to him.

"Got to pull it off first," the Breton noted dryly. He was unsentimental and pragmatic but somewhat charming; Irkand quite liked him. "We're going to have a third party meddling in affairs. The Blades are back with a vengeance."

"If by 'back' you mean 'one woman and a crazy old mage'," Vex observed sarcastically.

Delvin smirked. "Esbern's crazy as a loon but that Aurelia's got her head screwed on right. Now we know where Martin gets it from."

Irkand kept his face neutral. He wasn't going to ask how the Thieves' Guild had gotten their hands on his grand-nephew; news from Solitude was bleak. But that his niece was resurrecting the Blades? He thought she had more sense than that.

"I wanna pick locks!" Martin's voice was whiny as he entered the Ragged Flagon from the cistern door.

"Sorting out dead Altmer's jewellery isn't that bad," one of the thieves remarked cheerfully. "Dead men rarely complain if you take their stuff."

"Unless they're draugr or ghosts or skeletons," Martin retorted.

"A thief cannot be picky," Irkand told his errant kinsman mildly. "Besides, carry some salt to protect you."

"Unca Irkand!" Martin's mood was mercurial, much like Aurelia's but more prone to cheer than sorrow. But then, even being kidnapped and hiding in the sewers of Riften was an improvement over his niece's childhood.

Irkand rose to his feet and caught the lad as he launched into a flying leap. He was relieved to see the boy alive, if only to savour the sweetness of the shock in Armaund Motierre's face when he told him… just before he died. Irkand was comfortable with killing Titus, but the Breton Elder Councillor had tried to harm his family. That could not be forgiven.

"That boy's got relatives all over the place," Delvin noted. Then he flushed. "Ah, I, ah, may have dropped hints to the Blades that Solitude is a bad place to be at the moment."

"I assume they've made contact with the Dragonborn?" Irkand asked mildly.

Delvin was made of sterner stuff than most; he only licked his lips at that calm gaze. "He's with them. Blond Nord, carries himself like a noble."

"He Shouted the Thalmor into pieces," Martin told Irkand eagerly.

"I will time my… job… for when they're not in town." Irkand smiled and nodded forgivingly at Delvin. "Aurelia is Family, even if she will never know it."

The Guild Master didn't visibly sigh with relief, but he relaxed minutely. "I'll bet septims to slop the Dragonborn will be… ah… friendly with your niece soon, by the way they were looking at each other."

"Please don't tell me about my niece's love life. I like being sober," Irkand told him through gritted teeth as Martin looked confused. For all his grand-nephew's precociousness, he was still a relative innocent, thank Sithis.

Delvin smirked, which didn't help matters. "Now go and sort out that jeweller, kid."

"Yessir," Martin said with a sigh. "Will I see you more, Unca Irkand?"

Irkand allowed himself a smile. "Of course, my boy. I do a lot of… business… with the Guild."

"Yay!" Martin hugged him and trotted off back into the cistern, the thief following him with an amused glance.

"We know who he is," Delvin finally admitted when the boy was gone. "But don't worry, we'll keep him safe."

"Why?" Irkand asked bluntly.

"Because the Thalmor want to kill us all," Delvin observed dryly. "Not to mention the fact that having the future Emperor of Tamriel… or a potential Guild Master… owing us will be good for us."

Irkand smiled proudly. "I always knew that boy was an Aurelii."

Delvin shook his head. "You're one creepy fucked-up bastard, Irkand."

The assassin grinned. "Thank you."

Later, when business was concluded and he was back in the Bee and Barb, Irkand drew his wazikashi and meditated on the quicksilver blade. He'd thought the Blades dead and gone, scattered to the farthest corners of Tamriel, their lore lost and legend broken by the Thalmor. His father had started a war they couldn't win and Cloud Ruler had paid the price for it.

_My son,_ the Night Mother said gently. _Do you regret becoming Listener?_

He instinctively knew that if he said 'yes', the Night Mother would release him from the duty as her voice. But if he did so, who would take over? Festus was too old, Gabrielle too monofocused, Babette too childlike, Veezara too obedient and Arnbjorn too stupid. Nazir was shrewd enough, but would have trouble coping with the Night Mother's unsolicited advice; Cicero was devout enough, but his insanity was unquestionable. Astrid, as much as he loved her, was a fine Speaker but would make a poor Listener.

_I regret nothing,_ he assured his Mother. _Will it be allowable to add Martin and Aurelia to the list of names we don't have to kill?_

_ They are your Family, though if the boy becomes Emperor as a man, that protection will be removed,_ she answered kindly. It was strange to hear Aurelia's voice calm and motherly when it was typically husky and submissive. Another reason to kill Titus. _And worry not, until Alduin's demise, the Dragonborn is safe._

_ Why?_ He was… surprised at that.

_How can All That Is Not define Itself with All That Is destroyed?_ The Night Mother's voice was gently chiding, like he should have understood that himself.

_…Point taken._ If the man treated Aurelia right and she fell in love with him, he'd become Family too. _I'd better get cracking on the Mede contract. Sooner he's dead, sooner I can put Motierre in the ground._

_ It's bad form to kill your clients,_ the Night Mother chided.

_It's worse form to threaten my Family,_ Irkand disagreed. _Motierre will try to cover his tracks, Mother._

_ …Hmm, you may be correct. _She paused before adding, _Arnbjorn is loyal to Sithis, you know._

_ Arnbjorn is loyal to Astrid. And I know she's been irreverent towards you, but she has worked without a Listener for most of her life._

_ Sithis can be forgiving. But you will need to bring the Dark Brotherhood into line, my son. Dark times are coming and things worse than death are making their move in the wake of Alduin's release._

Irkand felt a chill. _What do you mean?_

But the Night Mother was silent and frustrated, he forced himself to sleep. A tired assassin was a poor assassin and he had business in this town.


	20. Kyne's Own

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm playing merry hell with the werewolf canon because I can; I'm also creating my whole Agent of Kyne stuff out of cloth derived from the few fragments of lore I have. This chapter is also finishing up (most of) Farkas' main storyline before we get to Solitude shenanigans. I am using Icelandic for Atmoran/Old Nord.

…

**Kyne's Own**

Froki's Hut, 30th Frostfall 4E 201

"You're efficient, werewolf. I'll give you that."

Farkas laid the token of his latest hunt at the feet of the idol of Kyne, a matronly woman carved from mammoth ivory with features that were worn down to suggestions from generations of touching for luck, and wondered what new challenge the old hunter would set him. He'd travelled all over Skyrim this past week, fighting spirit totems that ranged from Mudcrab and Skeever to the last three of Bear, Mammoth and Sabre Cat. For every kill, he had to carve a token from the fossilised remains and return it to Kyne's shrine, to prove that he would only hunt for necessity and allow nothing of his prey to be wasted. It had been good, travelling at night and hunting during the day, and he'd… come to grips with his love of the hunt. Perhaps that was what Hircine had granted him Saviour's Hide for.

Haming was stirring the venison stew as Froki gestured to the sitting furs. Farkas sat down cross-legged, watching the man as he would Kodlak. Idly he wondered if he could coax the old hunter to meet the Harbinger; they'd like each other quite a bit, he suspected.

"You seem more comfortable in your skin," Froki observed as he poured Farkas a cup of the ubiquitous homebrewed Nord Mead.

"We Companions are often called to kill dangerous predators, but aside from Aela we pretty much left the corpses for scavengers," Farkas admitted ashamedly. "We'd bring back the odd hide for Eorlund, but he tends to prefer deer an' wolf pelts to anything else."

"Not all leather is the same," Froki agreed. "But I suspect things will change when you return to Jorrvaskr."

"Yeah. Seems… disrespectful… to leave the corpses. Hell, if we're going to strip bandits for whatever's useful, might as well treat beasts with the same respect."

Froki smiled and reached out to squeeze the giant's forearm. "You understand."

They drank for a while, following up cups of good bog-myrtle mead with a decent stew. Haming's mother had worked at the inn in Helgen and had taught the boy well. Froki always waited until Farkas had refreshed himself before giving him a new target.

When Haming had gone to bed, Froki sighed, staring into his last cup of mead. "Your last hunt will be for the Troll Guardian in Graywinter Watch," he finally said. "After that, I will have nothing left to teach you."

"When I'm done, come to Jorrvaskr," Farkas impulsively said. "Kodlak would like you, I think."

The old hunter shook his head. "No. I hear the winds calling my name and know that soon I will return to Kyne. I am more worried for Haming."

"I an' my brother were raised in Jorrvaskr," Farkas pointed out. "We could take care of him."

Froki smiled sadly. "You have a great heart, Farkas, one that truly beats with the courage and loyalty that brought the Five Hundred from Atmora."

"Uh, thanks." Farkas privately thought that the hunter was laying it on a bit thick.

"But you still fear to take charge. From what you have said of the Companions, few of them possess the _compassion_ that distinguishes the Harbinger, makes him worthy of the prescience granted to them since Ysgramor shattered Wuuthrad on the door of Yngol's Barrow and laid himself down in the Tomb."

Farkas went very still. These were legends known only to the Companions. "You know a lot about us, a lot I haven't told you."

"My father was a Companion," Froki said, expression sad and distant. "He was one of Askar's Circle, but died in the Great War."

"…He was a werewolf."

"Yes. And Hircine claimed him on death, I imagine. He feared that fate for me, knowing my love of the hunt, so he sent me to his brother to learn the old ways."

Farkas sighed. "You're tryin' to save me because you couldn't save your father."

"…Yes. And the other Companions."

The gentle giant gestured helplessly. "Aela an' Skjor are happy with their lot. Aela's entire family were werewolves an'Skjor is her mate. Companions don't force anyone in their ranks to do what they don't want."

"And no doubt they will wish to continue the pack." Froki swallowed the last of his mead. "And your brother and Kodlak desire Sovngarde."

"Of course."

"What do _you_ want, Farkas?"

The werewolf sighed and downed his own mead. "I want the Companions to be what they're supposed to be: the protectors of Skyrim. Not glorified sellswords with a thin layer of honour; not a werewolf pack. Shouldn't matter _what_ you are, so long as you have heart an' want to protect people."

Froki leaned over and squeezed his forearm. "Then you have your goal, Farkas. Now get some rest; it's a long trip to Graywinter Watch and you have friends who still need you."

…

Graywinter Watch, 1st Sun's Dusk 4E 201

The Troll Guardian dissipated, leaving only a fragment of troll skull behind. Turned out there'd been a pack of real trolls too, so Farkas had been forced to fight them too. At least there was plenty of troll fat for tending weapons and candles.

"…Farkas!" Aela's voice was both glad and relieved as the Huntress entered the cave. "You just saved me some trouble, Shield-Brother."

The giant smiled at his Shield-Sister. "Hello, Aela. How's everythin' at Jorrvaskr?"

Her expression turned troubled. "Kodlak's illness has worsened, along with Vilkas' temper and the fights in the Circle. Where the hell are the whelps?"

Farkas scratched his head worriedly. "Last I heard, Riften. We split up in Ivarstead an'… somethin' came up. Lia went to Riften an' told me she'd either be there or Whiterun an' Brom, Athis an' Irileth had to do Greybeard stuff."

Aela frowned. "Dammit, Farkas! Dragon attacks are increasing and you're… what? Hunting?"

"I'm following the Sacred Trials of Kyne," Farkas admitted. "Lia told me we should be fine for a couple weeks, especially after Winterhold."

"Winterhold?"

"The Thalmor tried to end the world. Me, Lia, Kai Wet-Pommel an' the mages stopped them. New Arch-Mage is a Khajiit, of all things."

Aela's expression was blank. "And you didn't think to stop in at Whiterun and let us know what's going on?"

"Given that the Circle's been like cats an' dogs over the werewolf thing, figured I needed some time to decide where I stand, Aela."

The Huntress frowned deeper but accepted his explanation with a sigh. "We've been trying to drag you every way but your own, Farkas. I'm sorry."

The warrior shrugged. "Doesn't bother me. I _like_ hunting for necessity. An' protectin' people. An' if you an' Skjor want to go to Hircine on your death, an' Kodlak an' Vilkas to Sovngarde, I'll help you as best I can."

"…You're implying that you don't want either path." Aela's pale gaze was grim. "Hircine won't let you go easy, Farkas, especially since he's given you Saviour's Hide-"

"I'm walkin' the path of Kyne," Farkas interrupted. "I got nothin' against Hircine, but I don't want to be a huntin' beast when I'm dead, Aela. Especially since I didn't know what I was gettin' into when you gave me the blood."

"I… That's fair," the Huntress finally said. "Hircine may… expect you to bring a replacement to the pack."

Farkas shrugged. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it."

Aela raked back her long red hair, looking out over the plains. "Will you be coming back to Whiterun with me?"

The werewolf pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Yeah, might be an idea. I'll have to head back to the Rift to finish this hunt, but I can just catch a carriage there, I guess."

"Of course." Aela's voice sounded sad. Farkas guessed she didn't like the idea of losing pack, even if he and Vilkas had been sort of tricked into it. "We should get going then."

Farkas retrieved the skull fragment and followed her out of the cave. Events were going quicker than he liked and the news of the Circle's conflict was worrying him.

_"But you still fear to take charge. From what you have said of the Companions, few of them possess the _compassion_ that distinguishes the Harbinger, makes him worthy of the prescience granted to them since Ysgramor shattered Wuuthrad on the door of Yngol's Barrow and laid himself down in the Tomb."_

Froki's words had bothered him since he'd started this hunt. Kodlak was obsessed with Lia becoming the Harbinger because he saw the care she had for other people. Maybe if she wasn't tied to the Blades and the Empire, she could have been a good Harbinger. Farkas had the feeling that what Kodlak was dreaming was her role in somehow curing the werewolf curse; she was becoming a fairly decent arcane scholar now and could probably figure out what to do. If not her, then J'zargo probably could.

_I'm not smart enough to be Harbinger,_ he thought sadly.

_"You're smarter than you give yourself credit for,"_ he recalled the Grand Master telling him.

It was a long broody walk back to Whiterun.

…

Jorrvaskr, 1st Sun's Dusk

"…I apologise, Kodlak, if my decisions have impacted on your plans for me."

Lia didn't sound very apologetic, Farkas thought wryly as he entered the study. She, Balgruuf and Athis were crowded into the room, the Dunmer whelp giving the Harbinger an unhappy glare. Guess he'd found out about the Circle stuff or was just unimpressed with the conflict within. Athis had always been, despite his urge for fortune and glory, one who'd bought wholesale into the honour and family thing.

"But I'll go to Glenmoril Cavern and kill these hagravens for you because I'll be over that side of Skyrim anyway," the Grand Master continued, nodding and smiling to Farkas in greeting as the werewolf entered with Aela. "I owe you that much."

The Huntress gasped. "You're attacking the Servants of Hircine? Are you insane?"

Lia's eyes flicked in the Huntress' direction. "I only require two heads, Aela, and the coven _did_ trick the Companions to a certain extent. No one is planning to totally destroy the Jorrvaskr pack."

"Especially as werewolves with control of themselves would be a powerful boon to Whiterun's defences," Balgruuf observed quietly. His voice was rumbling, like distant thunder, and the faintest of golden rings surrounded his irises. As he grew into his power as Dragonborn, he was changing physically.

Aela sighed. "I'm not happy."

"Neither am I. To be werewolves? That goes against everything-" Athis shook his head in disgust. "I don't care if you're trying to cleanse it. To be a manbeast is disgusting and goes against everything I signed up for when I joined the Companions."

"I'm tryin' to find a middle way with Kyne," Farkas assured the Dunmer. "But the Circle doesn't force people to follow-"

"Forcing anyone who wants to become a member of the Circle to become a werewolf counts," Athis interrupted disgustedly. Then he shook his head. "Sorry, Farkas. I'm leaving Jorrvaskr."

The werewolf sighed. "I understand. An'… you're right. If I'd'a known myself…"

Aela's expression was heartbroken. "Farkas, _please…_"

"No. Make it three heads, Lia. An' I'll come with ya."

"Given that I'm doing this for the benefit of you and your brother, I should bloody well hope so," Lia observed dryly. "Speaking of which-"

"Vilkas!" Kodlak bellowed for the lean warrior, who arrived soon enough, albeit not looking happy. "We've found a potential cure; you, Lia and Farkas will be going after it."

"You're staying in Whiterun with Esbern for the moment," Lia told Balgruuf. "You should get your brother up to speed on everything anyway."

"I am coming with you-"

"You're not endangering yourself in some random brawl with hagravens!" Lia retorted. "There's several Companions but only one Dragonborn."

Balgruuf met her eyes with a wry smile. "And here I thought the Blades had to do what I said."

"We have the right to ignore stupid ideas. And you coming with us is one of the biggest."

"I would argue that you accompanying Farkas and Vilkas is equally stupid," Balgruuf countered. "It's not your fight, Lia."

"Kodlak gave me the push to start accepting my heritage as Grand Master of the Blades," she responded. "I owe him this much."

"And he hid me after I faked my death," Balgruuf pointed out. "I'm coming with you."

"You are the most insane infuriating-"

They were almost nose to nose now and Farkas concealed a grin. The Dragonborn had been making no secret of his attraction to the half-blooded woman, though she had been trying to ignore hers. But the pheromones couldn't be denied when one with a wolf's nose scented them.

"Would you two like a room?" Vilkas asked acidly.

"Would you like another kick to the nuts?" Lia retorted, eyes narrowed dangerously.

His brother found a reason to shut up and Farkas didn't even bother hiding this grin.

"I will come with you. Or you do not go at all." Balgruuf's voice was hard, grim, the command of a Jarl.

"…You son of a bitch." Lia shoved her black hair from her face in frustration. "Fine! Let's go."

They and Athis exited the room, leaving Farkas with Vilkas, Kodlak and Aela. The Harbinger was looking ancient, his eyes bleary with pain. "I won't last for more than a month or two, I think," Kodlak finally admitted. "Before you leave… bring Skjor here. We must decide who becomes Harbinger."

The grey-haired warrior had overheard everything; Farkas was glad the whelps were outside and hoped Athis would keep his mouth shut. It didn't take long for him to fill Kodlak's second in on what had happened and his plans; unlike Aela, Skjor took it with a stoic nod.

"Hircine is pretty decent about these things," he finally said. "I'm not happy with the attack on the Glenmoril Coven, though. Killing Hircine's servants…"

Aela grunted in displeasure as Farkas scratched the back of his neck. "Just a different form of hunt, Skjor. We'll take what we need, nothing more."

The elder werewolf's lips curved in a faint smile. "The old ways?"

"Yeah. Followin' the path of Kyne."

"She and Hircine are… tolerant of each other. Might be good to have someone who can see both sides of the picture." He paused and added, "And if the Witches can't protect themselves from hunters, then they will be prey on Hircine's fields."

Farkas nodded slowly at the tacit approval. Skjor, though he loved being a werewolf, had never been obsessed with the hunt the way Aela was.

Skjor's smile broadened. "Which is why I think you should be Harbinger."

Vilkas stared at him. "I love my brother, but brains are not his strong point!"

Aela's expression was… exasperation wrapped in affection and sudden understanding. "Farkas is smarter than he looks and is… more understanding than the rest of us."

The gentle giant wished he was outside with Lia and Balgruuf. He'd make a lousy Harbinger-

Vilkas grunted. "He's my brother. I will support him, no matter what."

The Circle looked to Kodlak, whose paternal smile lightened the suffering on his face. "Farkas wasn't the person I'd dreamed of. And I always knew that Lia was part of the cure for the werewolf curse; the rest was my hopes once I saw how much leadership potential she possessed. But I have watched you come into your own, son of my heart, and find your voice at last. So I will not oppose the vote of the Circle."

Farkas wanted to flatten his ears. His Circle was crazy. But he couldn't deny their wishes. "Okay," he accepted, reluctance thick in his voice. "I hope we don't regret this."

Kodlak's smile was serene. "We will not, son of my heart. Now take your brother and go. Bring me to Sovngarde."

…

Jorrvaskr, 3rd Sun's Dusk 4E 201 (Sunrise)

In death, the Harbinger looked peaceful despite the gaping bloody wounds in his shoulder and gut. They'd cut him down in his bed as he slept, the nithing cowards. All because Skjor and Aela had decided to take the fight to the Silver Hand after the Dustman's Cairn attack during Njada's Trial. Farkas somehow managed to miss the abrasive whelp becoming a Companion… and werewolf… after Kodlak had sent him in search of Lia and then going on his own hunt.

"I want revenge," Vilkas vowed. He felt responsible because they were killing hagravens. "I want those filthy bastards dead!"

Farkas took a shuddering breath. "Then we'll go after them. But I need to finish the Trials first."

Froki was nearly dead now. If he died before Farkas could earn the Token, would Kyne listen to him? Would She take mercy on his soul?  
"Fuck Kyne!" Vilkas snarled. "Fuck the Divines! Those bastards attacked our home and they should be wiped out."

Farkas wished Lia or Balgruuf were here. They could quell Vilkas with a look. But instead they'd sent a mage-message to Esbern telling him to collect someone called Delphine and meet them in Falkreath. It didn't matter. He was here and he'd need to handle this.

"I said we will go after them. But they'll be expecting us hot on their heels an' will prepare. I want to wait a bit, to heal up an' take stock-"

"If you want to _hunt_ while the Silver Hand toast the death of our Harbinger, then I'll take Njada and do it myself!" Vilkas bellowed.

Once Farkas would have bowed to his brother's whim in a heartbeat. But now burdened with a leadership position he didn't want, he looked around Jorrvaskr, which had been partially fired and was filled with injured people. Tilma had also died. Not a single Companion who was here walked without a wound. "If you an' Njada are up to it, then fine," he told Vilkas shortly. "But we need to sort things out here an' then I need to go speak to Froki Whetted-Blade since I was finishin' the Trials when I ran into Aela."

Vilkas stared at him before storming out, the Stone-arm on his heels. Farkas hoped he'd come back safe and sound.

He turned to Aela, whose face was ashen with pain and grief. "Get Danica up here. We need a healer. And get Brother Andurs. We'll need to burn the dead."

Though he wanted to howl with grief for the dead, the living demanded his attention. And in that one moment, Farkas proved himself worthy of being the Harbinger, though he would never know or understand why.

…

Skyforge, 6th Sun's Dusk

Vilkas and Njada returned, and much to Farkas' surprise, so had the Blades. Athis now wielded dual wazikashis and looked much calmer. All of the Blades, excepting Onmund and Esbern, wore the famous segmented armour of their Order, armour which looked ancient in design; Farkas was unsurprised to see Lia wearing a turquoise brocade sash instead of the blue and gold that the Akaviri Dragonguard preferred.

Now it was time for Kodlak to burn. When Eorlund went to light the pyre on top of the Skyforge, Balgruuf stopped him with a shake of the head. The former Jarl was unhelmeted for the first time outside of Jorrvaskr since Mirmulnir's attack, clad in the Skyforge Steel plate forged for him by the blacksmith several years ago and now glimmering with the ochre highlights of enchantments against fire, and his eyes were dragon-gold in banked rage. "He was amongst the greatest of Harbingers. Let him be sent to Sovngarde by dragonfire."

Then he took a deep breath and… _Shouted. "YOL!"_

Kodlak's pyre erupted into white-gold flame, afterimages stamping themselves on Farkas' eyes. Everyone dispersed after that but for Balgruuf, Lia, Eorlund and Farkas.

The blacksmith gathered the pieces of Wuuthrad and laid them on the pyre. "Shout when my arm is raised," Eorlund advised Balgruuf. "Keep the flame steady."

Lia watched them silently as Farkas finally let himself cry. Much to his confusion, Eorlund noted the tears and gestured towards the trough, saying "Weep into that."

Farkas obeyed, kneeling before the trough and feeling the pulse of the Skyforge and the heat of the pyre and Balgruuf's Shouts and the heartbeat of Eorlund's hammer. The blacksmith began to chant, calling on runes and rhymes in a language that Farkas felt he should know but couldn't quite place, and Wuuthrad began to glow blue-white instead of cherry-red.

"Atmoran. Bright blessed Dibella," Lia breathed.

"Any language you can't speak, woman?" Balgruuf asked in between Shouts.

"I can't _speak_ it. But I remember the cadence from the prayers my mother would make."

Then Eorlund quenched Wuuthrad in the trough, with clean water and Farkas' tears, and the blue-white glow died.

_"Naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth, Wuuthrad los heim einzuk."_ Balgruuf's voice was reverent. "In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old, Wuuthrad is forged again."

"In the fire of the Skyforge and in the tears of the Companions, Wuuthrad is forged again," Farkas managed to say.

"In the name of Ysgramor and his heirs, Wuuthrad is forged again," Lia added softly.

"In the name of the gods old and new, I present to you Wuuthrad, the Elf-Slayer. In the name of Kyne and Shor, I present to you Wuuthrad, the Axe of Ysgramor. In the name of Ysgramor, I present Wuuthrad to you, heir of the Captain of the Five Hundred," Eorlund announced, offering the battleaxe to Farkas.

His hands closed around it convulsively and the cold wind blew into a gale that stirred nothing but cut to the bone with its icy breath. He could feel the presence of Kodlak, of Askar and of the Harbingers stretching back to Ysgramor himself. And he knew what he had to do next.

"Tell the others I will meet them at the Tomb of Ysgramor," he told Eorlund. "There's something I need to complete first."

…

Froki's Shack, 7th Sun's Dusk

"You came… Harbinger."

Froki was near death, but managed to smile as the big warrior entered his shack, Wuuthrad itself strapped to his back. Those quicksilver eyes burned like the axe itself but were still kind. That was good.

"The hunt is done, old man. I'm sorry I took so long…" Farkas sighed, removed Wuuthrad to lean it against a wall, and sat by his pallet. "Things… happened."

"Present your offering to Kyne," Froki commanded.

With a rueful smile, Farkas obeyed, and Froki sighed as a chill wind entered the shack. It was done.

"The Token is yours. Mega vindur af Kyne fylgja þinn veiði." _May the winds of Kyne guide your hunt…_

When the chill wind left, Froki joined it.

…

The Tomb of Ysgramor, 9th Sun's Dusk

"_Farkas. Am I so poor a huntmaster?"_

Hircine's voice was calm, curious, as Farkas cast the witch's head into the Flame of the Harbinger. Kodlak had been freed first and then Vilkas. Now it was his turn.

_No,_ Farkas admitted silently. _But I don't hunt for pleasure, despite me likin' it. I hunt for necessity an' to protect people._

The Prince of Manbeasts sighed. _"Not all of My servants become beasts. You've certainly earned the right to be a beater or a lesser Hunter."_

_ Thank you, but no. Aela an' Skjor would be better for that._

_ "Will you force them to take this 'cure'?"_

_ Of course not. Each Companion decides their honour. The Harbinger is only an adviser an' arbiter._

_ "Will you allow them to make new werewolves?"_

_ If the Circle as a whole approves, yeah. No offence, but we don't need another Arnbjorn._

_ "Neither do I. Worthless mutt now serves Sithis." _Hircine sounded rather chagrined about that and Farkas stifled a laugh. That was a Daedric Prince for you.

_I'll return Saviour's Hide to you._

_ "Oh no, you've earned that."_ Hircine sighed. _"I'll let you go, Farkas. The best hunter is a willing one, and it doesn't matter whether you're worshipping Kyne or Myself – you're still hunting, and that's good enough for me."_

_ Skjor said you'd be a good sport about this._

_ "Skjor's a smart wolf. However, you'll need to defeat your wolf spirit. Good luck!"_

Then Farkas found a red wolf spirit at his throat, pinning him down, but he wrapped his arms around the beast's back and squeezed. It howled in pain and fragmented into vermillion light, returning to Hircine.

_"Dammit, Kyne, did You really have to give him the strength of a bear?"_ Hircine complained.

_"He earned it," _responded a breathy woman's voice.

Hircine grumbled and faded from Farkas' mind. With His absence, the warrior felt like he was relaxing in a bath of warm spiced mead, losing aches and pains he'd never known he had. Maybe Vilkas wouldn't be such an asshole if he felt like this too.

_"You have one more task," _Kyne whispered into his mind. _"Speak to Danica Pure-Spring in Whiterun. She will tell you what to do."_

Then She left and Farkas was able to rise to his feet shakily, feeling the eyes of the Circle upon him.

"The Circle must approve any new werewolves, but we will continue to give Hircine His due," the Harbinger announced hoarsely. Aela and Skjor grinned, though Vilkas scowled. Njada seemed indifferent. Strange girl, that one.

"Back to Whiterun?" she asked.

"Yeah. I got one last thing I have to do for Kyne."

"What's that?" Aela sounded intrigued.

Farkas grinned, familiar with Danica's complaints. "Regrow the Gildergreen."

…

Eldergleam Sanctuary, 13th Sun's Dusk

"_Vaxa frá grænn , eldri glampi , vaxa frá tré , skíma grænn."_

_ "Grow from green, elder gleam, grow from tree, glimmer green."_

It was a child's prayer. But Farkas had never really learned much of the Old Language for prayers. Maurice had coached him in Old Nord until one fateful night when the Breton provided a passing sabre cat with a light meal as Farkas fought off a troll. He'd brought the man's remains here and planted them at the roots of the Eldergleam. It seemed right. Wasn't the man's fault he'd focused on the peaceful aspects of Kyne.

A small sapling grew from the spot where Maurice was buried; Farkas pulled a small cloth with which to wrap it but found himself surprised when a spriggan heaved itself out of the earth and used sap to protect its roots. Its alien green eyes looked at Farkas approvingly before the spirit deliberately nodded and presented the sapling to the Harbinger.

He took it gingerly, grateful he hadn't brought that damned Nettlebane, and watched the spirit return to whence it came. Maurice had said they were servants of Kynareth and he could well believe it.

He sighed. It was peaceful and beautiful here, but no hunting was allowed; even being armed was something of an affront to the pilgrims here, though they'd shut up on seeing Kyne's Token around his neck. Some people, especially Southerners, were uncomfortable with nature being red in tooth and claw.

_Hopefully I'll be able to turn my attention to the dragons after this,_ Farkas thought grimly as he left Eldergleam Sanctuary. Balgruuf had hinted that he would be necessary in the final battle against Alduin, calling him 'Lord of the Wolves'. Which was… interesting.

Maurice had implied he was a worker of Kyne's will in Nirn. A strange thought when Farkas really wasn't religious. Well, not Danica and the rest. He preferred Froki's ways. Live your life well, revere the gods, and never waste the gifts you were given.

At least Haming was in the Temple of Kynareth for now. He missed his grandfather but was glad to be around kids again. The boy was even talking about becoming a Blade like Lia or a Companion like Farkas.

He set his gaze into the setting sun and prepared for the long journey home.

…

Jorrvaskr, 15th Sun's Dusk

"Child of Kynareth?"

"Kyne," Farkas corrected automatically, earning a laugh from the robed Nord woman who'd entered Jorrvaskr, asking for alms. The travelling priestess wore an Amulet of the goddess and was a matronly woman with sky-blue eyes and silver-threaded red hair. Judging by the scars on her face, she'd once been a warrior.

He poured her some good Honningbrew mead and offered her venison he'd hunted himself. The last terse message from Lia and Balgruuf had requested he remain in Whiterun until they returned from Solitude. Farkas decided he'd take a few days to take stock of the past couple months and how he'd changed. Plus he needed to get the Companions ready for the fight against the dragons and… other forces.

_And I'll need to make sure both sides of the Civil War are behavin'_, he thought with a sigh as the priestess dug in with the gusto of the famished.

"It's rare to see someone wearing Kyne's Token," the priestess observed in between bites. "Most people prefer to wear Amulets of Talos, if they can."

"The White-Gold Concordat hasn't yet banned the worship of Kyne," Farkas observed with rare sarcasm. "Wait for it though. The Thalmor will get around to it."

"Aye," the priestess agreed. "How are you liking being Harbinger?"

"It's not what I expected. I still think they made a mistake. But I won't argue with the Circle," Farkas admitted.

The priestess smiled. "Ysgramor served Kyne too. Shor is the father of the gods but it was Kyne who gave the world breath and the Shouts to mankind. She has her stake in this… Agent of Kyne."

She wrapped strong, sturdy fingers around Farkas' own, catching his eyes with that sky-blue gaze. "To you I give the strength of a bear, the nose of a wolf, the cunning of a skeever, the eyes of a sabre cat, the endurance of a mammoth, the bite of a mudcrab and the ferocity of a troll. So long as you honour Me, you will not starve and beasts will not harm you. The wind will be your friend and the cold your brother. You will hunt Alduin and in the end bring him to bay."

She leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "I give you these Words: Kaan Drem Ov. Give them to the Dragonborn. Tell him it is a gift from Kyne."

Then the priestess settled back on her bench and returned to her meal, smiling as Farkas tried to absorb the words of the Shout she'd shared with him. "I am pleased with you, My child. May your hunt always be true."

"Thank you… Mother of Men." See, he was too dumb to be Harbinger. He didn't realise she was Kyne in disguise.

The priestess looked at him oddly but continued eating. Farkas decided not to make a fuss about it and got back to his food. Troubling times were coming so he'd better enjoy the clear skies until then.


	21. The Plans of Gods and Men

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I 3 thu' 's translator; someone has come up with swear words in Dovahzul. Balgruuf has a potty mouth in this chapter.

…

**The Plans of Gods and Men**

The Palace of Kings, Windhelm, 21st Sun's Dark 4E 201

News passed through Eastmarch like wildfire that the Nerevarine was at the Statue of Azura. The Grey Quarter was emptied of Dunmer as they made the pilgrimage to see the will of their goddess made flesh; Rolff Stone-Fist shouted hoarse insults to deserted houses. If times had not been so desperate, Ulfric would have gladly embraced the greyskins' absence. But the revelation of the Nerevarine's identity sent a chill down his spine.

How many Moots and Jarls' meetings had those impassive scarlet eyes observed? How many secrets was the greatest threat to Morrowind unification privy to? How much sway over the Dragonborn did she hold?

His hand closed over the handle of his axe. "I made a vow to trouble no forces of the Empire until Alduin was vanquished. The Dunmer do not belong to Titus Mede."

Galmar's grunt was approving. "I'm not fond of Argonians, but at least they're willing to earn their keep."

Ulfric sighed. "I don't like the idea of _any_ foreign group living within the walls of the city of Ysgramor, old friend."

"Neither do I. But Torbjorn Shatter-Shield says the boots are more useful than the greyskins."

"For shipping, aye. They breathe water." The Stormcloak sighed again, looking over his bleak feasting hall. "Strip the Dunmer houses of their goods and pile them on the docks. The greyskins have chosen to leave Windhelm; let us make it clear we are glad to see them gone."

"The Argonians will pick through them like rats in a granary," Galmar pointed out with some relish.

"That is not my problem." Ulfric returned to his throne, sinking down into the warmth provided by two braziers with a relieved grunt. Elenwen had tortured him and he felt it every winter. "What news on the Jagged Crown?"

"I've narrowed it down to between Korvunjund and Morvanskar," Galmar reported, taking a seat at the head of the table and facing his Jarl. "We may find it yet, but I don't see Balgruuf taking you as High King lying down."

"It is confirmed he is the Dragonborn?"

"Yes. Lia of Bruma is in his presence." Galmar poured himself some mead. "Kai Wet-Pommel speaks highly of her, even if her message to you was… ah…"

"Typical of a Norc." Ulfric chuckled richly. "I wondered what was so familiar about her. I remember the Foe-Reaper when…" He sighed, this time in melancholy. "A pity she stands with the Empire."

"The Thalmor have gotten arrogant," Galmar continued. "They attacked the Thieves' Guild in Riften because there were Blades in the sewers."

"Did any survive?"

Galmar laughed. "I heard the new Grand Master – who is that Lia, by the way – stuck Nurancar's head on a pike herself."

Ulfric sat up, wincing when his scarred body protested. "I knew it!"

Galmar and the couple Thanes eating at the table looked at him oddly; Jorleif was berating the cook in the kitchen. "What do you mean?" his huscarl asked tentatively.

"She's planning to make Balgruuf Emperor." Ulfric found himself grinning from ear to ear. "That old wolf Kodlak must have been in on it."

Galmar stared at him. "Balgruuf… as… Emperor…"

"The new Tiber Septim." Ulfric actually smirked. "Kodlak was subtly letting me know that I would be High King while Balgruuf would be… elsewhere. He couldn't come out and say it in front of the Imperials, after all."

"…That… makes a lot of sense." Galmar still scowled. "What if Balgruuf still wants your head for Deadking Torygg?"

"I'll pay a proper weregild for the man," Ulfric decided. The things he'd learned about Torygg after death led him to regret an action born of heartbreak and frustration. But in the end, they'd all been actors on the stage of fate.

"Sure you can stomach taking Balgruuf's orders?" Galmar asked, his tone indicating he thought Ulfric had lost the plot.

"Better Balgruuf than a Colovian."

"…I can't argue with that. But let's find the Crown first, hmm?  
"Of course, old friend." Ulfric was feeling optimistic, however. The greyskins had left, the Dragonborn was Nord (even if he was that compromiser Balgruuf) and he'd finally figured out that sly old wolf Kodlak's last great deed for Skyrim. The Thalmor were going to get their just desserts and Ulfric would be at the forefront.

…

High Hrothgar, 23rd Sun's Dark

"_Kul do vekah!"_

Arngeir dropped his cup of tea as the Dragonborn's Voice rumbled at the entrance, using language unheard of since his time spent here with the slightly older Ulfric, two adolescents quarrelling like squirrels over a hoard of nuts.

But when he went outside, he realised that there was no one there, and that the Shout had been heard across Skyrim. Of all the things the Dragonborn could have Shouted, did it have to be strong language?

The Master of the Greybeards went back inside and made himself a new cup of tea. For extra measure, he added a shot of mead. He was going to need it.

…

The Shrine of Azura

Irileth wanted to run away, to Solstheim and beyond. The sea of faces before her, all the shades of grey under Azura's stars, reflected hope and desperation as they beheld the Moon and Star Incarnate. Nerevar had once united the Dunmer. Now the dark elves of Skyrim prayed that she would do the same.

"You can do this," Aranea Ienith murmured soothingly.

"They came here at your urging," Irileth hissed.

"Don't blame me for what visions Azura gave me," Aranea pointed out tartly. "You could have refused to come."

The Nerevarine scowled. "Alduin is just the beginning. The Thalmor-"

"I know. Brelyna told us what happened at Winterhold." The priestess squeezed Irileth's shoulder sympathetically. "You _can_ do this. You _must._"

"I know, I know. It was because I helped destroy the Dunmer." Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and raised Azura's Star to catch the last of the twilight.

_"My daughter."_ As always, the Daedric prince actually sounded pleased to communicate with her. _"How fare you?"_

_ Absolutely wonderful. Alduin is on the loose, the Thalmor made a good effort to destroy the world, and I'm stuck on the wrong side of Skyrim._

Azura chuckled deeply. _"The Dunmer have come from Winterhold to Riften to behold you, My daughter. Why do you fear to embrace your destiny?"_

_ I am no ruler, Mother. I know that much._

_ "No, but you are a warleader."_ The Daedric Prince paused. _"Warn your Dragonborn. Alduin's shadow is so great that it casts darkness over lesser threats."_

_ Why do you care what some Nord does? _Irileth couldn't help but taunt the goddess.

_"Because his actions will impact on the Dunmer and because you consider him a friend," _Azura observed. _"You don't give your loyalty lightly, daughter."_

_ …Fair enough._ Irileth looked down and sighed. _Damn, they're expecting me to say something._

_ "Tell them that Ulfric Stormcloak has removed their belongings from the Grey Quarter and given them to the Argonians. Tell them it is time they embraced the Reclamations. Tell them that you are my Voice and that you are to be obeyed as I would be."_

_ …Are You insane? You're triggering _war_._

_ "It is Evgir Unslaad, as the Nords say. And with Ulfric's actions, this war would have started anyway. But you will have the initiative as he will be waiting for the Dunmer to return to Windhelm before taking action."_

_ Very well… Mother._

As always, Irileth obeyed Azura. She relayed the news and the Dunmer began to mutter angrily. Then she told them to embrace the Reclamations of Azura, Boethiah and Mephala, and they yelled affirmatively. Finally she held up Azura's Star, the jewel blazing with the colours of dusk, and spoke in the Voice of the Nerevarine.

The answering roar echoed across the mountains of northern Skyrim and ignited Evgir Unslaad.

…

Sky Haven Temple

Lia was in the middle of arguing with Delphine, the senior surviving Blade, when Balgruuf swore so loudly that the Temple shook. They looked at each other and the former courtesan bolted for the stairs that led to the courtyard doors. Whatever had provoked that temper tantrum couldn't be good.

She emerged into the bare courtyard where even now several newly inducted Blades practiced, though they'd stopped and were gawking at the shirtless Dragonborn Shouting obscenities into the sky. _"Tol gjok firok!"_

"Stupid fucking bastard," Esbern was translating absently to his new student Onmund, who had jumped at the chance to join the Blades.

"And here I thought I was good for being able to swear in Akaviri," Lia quipped dryly.

"Teach me!" Balgruuf demanded angrily. "I'm running out of languages here."

"It's true," Esbern confirmed mildly. "He's gone through Nord, Colovian, Breton and Dunmeris. He even managed a bit of Orsimer, though he mispronounced a word and instead of saying 'fucking Ulfric', he said 'I will make love to Ulfric', and his one Altmeri curse compares the esteemed Jarl of Windhelm to a pig with constipation."

Lia shivered inwardly as she realised Balgruuf's eyes were pure gold, the pupils slit, and his Voice was rumbling like a distant storm. _"Drem, Junseahrol,"_ she whispered. _Peace, King of the Hill…_

"You speak my dragon name," he murmured harshly, those golden eyes focused on her face. "You bid me to be calm, but you don't know why I rage."

"I need you calm so you can tell me," Lia pointed out, forcing her voice to remain serene. "So we can figure out how Ulfric's managed to bugger things up and fix it."

"You fear me," he continued in that harsh whisper. "But your first thought is to calm me."

"You can Shout me off this mountain, set fire to me or turn me to ice," Lia reminded him with a dry edge to her slightly quavering voice. "I'd say it's a fairly natural reaction to seeing a pissed-off Dragonborn."

Balgruuf's fists clenched and he took a ragged breath. "Esbern, take the recruits inside. Lia and I must speak, and I may yet need to swear some more."

"I'm sure the Greybeards are impressed with your command of Dovahzul," Esbern observed with a smirk as he chivvied Onmund, Athis and Uthgerd the Unbroken inside.

"Shit… They heard that?"

"I think Skyrim heard that," Lia said, breathing a little easier as most of the gold in his eyes retreated.

"You're used to placating powerful men, aren't you?" Balgruuf asked once the courtyard was clear.

"Part of a courtesan's training," she confirmed, keeping her voice light. "Now what has Ulfric done wrong?"

"He's sent Stormcloak couriers around proclaiming that he's found the Jagged Crown and that he would give his allegiance to Talos Reborn, who just happens to be me," Balgruuf explained bitterly. "On top of that, he's thrown the Dunmer out of Windhelm and given their belongings to the Argonians."

"Can you do without me for a few days?" Lia asked. "I'm going to Windhelm and I'm going to kill that bastard. I told him to behave!"

Balgruuf shook his head. "No. I will be going to Solitude. The cat was let out of the bag at Kodlak's funeral; hell, maybe even Riften. I will need you by my side as you have Imperial contacts that I lack."

Despite the chill in the air that had her wearing her thick Skaal style garments, he was radiating heat that she could feel a foot away. Instinctively, she reached out her hand to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. "Isn't Irileth in Eastmarch?"

"Yeah. And she's gathering a Dunmer army."

"Shit, we don't need another bloody civil war-"

"They're more likely to giving the Stormcloaks hell than ordinary Nords." Then Balgruuf smiled bleakly. "I'd rather the Stormcloaks bloodied themselves on Dunmer than my people, Lia."

"And the Thalmor will be laughing the whole time," Lia reminded him. "Damn Ulfric for being a stupid bastard!"

"You're right…" Balgruuf sighed. "I had… given some thought to becoming High King, as has been suggested by several people, yourself included."

"Marry Elisif-"

"She's a child. Hasn't even hunted an ice wraith." Balgruuf smiled at her and reached into his beltpouch. "You left these in the alchemy supplies at Jorrvaskr. Farkas told me that you'd killed three just before you met him."

He dropped a leather thong strung with ice-wraith teeth over her head, the necklace nestling between her breasts even over the thick fur parka she wore. She shuddered at the invasion of their icy aura and he chuckled richly.

"You're an adult by Nord standards," Balgruuf told her, voice rumbling.

_Oh Balgruuf…_ Lia raised her tattooed hand and pulled off her mitten to show the red dragon on the back. "I… wish it were otherwise, but I belong to the Emperor. Until or if he gifts me to you, I-"

"If you are saying that because you aren't interested in me, woman, just admit I'm not your type and I will respect that," he rumbled darkly, eyes turning gold again. "No true Nord forces a woman."

It was tempting. It was the easy way. Lia could lie as easily as she breathed. Feign disinterest, resign herself to a cold and lonely bed, coach Elisif through hunting an ice wraith so she could be considered a woman… So many problems in Skyrim solved with a few empty words.

But she was cold and the Dragonborn was so warm. He was intelligent, articulate, shrewd… He hadn't been happy about her being Titus' whore, but his anger was directed more at the Emperor than her…

"I'm not," she whispered. "But going to bed with another man without the Emperor's permission is literally treason for me, especially as I've borne him a son."  
"I see." Balgruuf's voice was flat. "If you had the choice…?"

"We'd have been told to shut up in the whelps' quarters of Jorrvaskr," she admitted huskily.

He smiled broadly. "It is enough, for now," he finally said. "I… just wanted to pin you down, _britgeini_, my beautiful one. To know where we stood."

She could have started a third war in Skyrim, she was so livid with him. Instead she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him down for a kiss, using her considerable knowledge as a Companion to make him shudder and draw her closer to that wonderful warmth.

Then she stepped back and turned away, laughing softly as his curses blistered the air once more.

…

The Blue Palace, Solitude. 25th Sun's Dusk

"Look on the upside, General Tullius. The Dragonborn didn't sound so pleased with Ulfric and the Nerevarine's gathering an army against him."

Elisif's tone was so cheerful that the dour Colovian was forced to chuckle at her summation of events. In the months since the meeting at Jorrvaskr, when confronting the murderer of her husband, she'd broken out of the grief-stricken daze that had left her pliant and biddable to reveal a quixotic young woman with a wicked sense of humour. He'd always had a thing for Nord women since Jonna; he and the General had never lain together, but she'd left an imprint on him that never faded.

He scrubbed at his bearded cheek irritably. Titus had commanded all Imperial soldiers grow their beards in mourning for Martin. The Emperor was, to put it kindly, a mess. He barely paid attention to reports and went through the motions of Court life. As loyal as he was to Titus, Tullius was being forced to think some hard grim thoughts, especially since Armaund Motierre was finally in Skyrim, ostensibly to help with the diplomatic crisis.

"What if the Dragonborn wants to be High King?" he countered. "There's been some rumours to that effect."

"Then if he is a good man, I'll gladly step aside," Elisif responded. "I… ah… may have discovered his identity."

"How the hell did you manage that when my best people couldn't?"

Elisif's dimple appeared. "You're not a Nord. One of my maids comes from Morthal and her brother serves in the Jarl's Longhouse. The Dragonborn visited Idgrod Ravencrone to learn of the future – she's touched by Akatosh, confirmed by the priests – and she called him 'kinsman'."

"I see." Tullius didn't, really.

"Aside from her husband and son, the only male kin Idgrod has is by marriage. Jarl Balgruuf the Greater married her elder sister Svanhild just after the Great War," Elisif continued. "It… makes a lot of sense. Balgruuf is the kind of man to put a threat to Skyrim like Alduin above his own ambitions."

Tullius had heard a lot of good things about the 'late' Jarl of Whiterun, even if the man had remained stubbornly neutral. "I can think of one… ah… easy solution," he said tentatively.

"Me marry Balgruuf? Never happen," Elisif retorted tartly. "He and Torygg were second cousins."

"Balgruuf's the Dragonborn, Your Grace?" Rikke, who'd just entered the private salon, asked intently.

"I believe so," Elisif responded, smiling at the Legate.

"That's… interesting." The Legate rolled her shoulders. Tullius would have collapsed under the weight of steel she bore easily. "General, Your Grace, I can confirm that the Blades are active again."

"Makes sense. They were the traditional servants of the Dragonborn," Elisif said quietly.

"It gets better." Rikke pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm reminded of Irkand's words: 'Skyrim carves a man down to his truest self'."

"Only time I've agreed with that bastard." Tullius was on knife's edge waiting for the Dark Brotherhood to attack. Irkand seemed to be taking his sweet damned time about it. Gods forgive him, but seeing Titus slowly lose himself in grief, Tullius was almost looking forward to it.

"Well…" Rikke sighed. "Aurelia Too-Tall's running around with a katana and killing Thalmor."

"Isn't she the Imperial… ah… consort who's supposed to be dead?" Elisif asked intently.

"…Yes," Tullius admitted, managing to speak. Of all the things he expected, this was one of the few that weren't on his list.

"It's not treason to be a Blade," Rikke said slowly. "And the woman seems to have a positive knack for getting involved in major events. So far she's aided the new Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold get his position – apparently saving the world, if Sybille is correct –and helped Farkas become the new Harbinger of the Companions. She, the Dragonborn and the Nerevarine stopped a Thalmor invasion of the Thieves' Guild and then slaughtered a Forsworn camp to regain an old Akaviri temple."

"Kodlak is dead. Oh dear…" Elisif sniffled sadly. "Still, I've met Farkas. He is a very kind man."

"He was killed by a faction known as the Silver Hand," Rikke confirmed grimly. "Vilkas, Farkas' brother, and Njada Stone-arm, the newest member of the Circle, killed them all in return."

"Good," Elisif said flatly. "General?"  
Head still spinning a little from the news a woman he'd slept with once was apparently giving the Thalmor their worst day since Lord Naarfin's death, it took Tullius a few seconds to pay proper attention to Elisif. "Yes?"

"Ask Jarl Hrongar if he's willing to host a Moot. If Ulfric _has_ found the Jagged Crown, then he can damned well show it to the Jarls of Skyrim. And anyone else with a stake in this will be there."

"What if he's full of shit?" Tullius asked crudely, forgetting himself in the presence of a lady.

"He will be proven so at the Moot." Elisif smiled that quixotic little smile again, making Tullius remind himself she was in mourning. "Because I intend to get my hands on it, one way or another, and give it to Balgruuf."

"…Why?" That smile was making him a little nervous.

"I have… other plans." Then she dimpled at him and he knew he was lost.


	22. Morituri te Salutant

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! If you're wondering why I'm skipping the majority of the Dark Brotherhood storyline, it's because it's needlessly complicated and Irkand has been organising covert assassins for nearly three decades. He knows what he's doing.

…

**Morituri te Salutant**

The Falkreath Sanctuary, 30th Sun's Dusk

"I have the information necessary for a strike on the Emperor. All we need to decide is how it must be done."

Irkand leaned forward, planting his hands on the Skyrim map he'd dragged from the front entrance to the middle of the cavern, and looked each of the Dark Brotherhood in the eye. "We have two options: do it by stealth and arrange for the Stormcloaks to take the blame… or _own_ the death, perform it in all our sanguine glory, and rise to the status of legends."

Debate began, the numbers evenly divided between his Family: Gabrielle, Nazir, Babette and Veezara for subtlety, Cicero, Arnbjorn, Astrid and Festus for open carnage. Irkand, as always, was the tiebreaker. He looked to Astrid with a raised eyebrow. "How would you arrange either campaign?" he asked. "I know how I would, but you know the strengths of our Family better than I."

"Gabrielle, Babette and Nazir for infiltration," the Nord beauty promptly responded. "Arnbjorn, Cicero and Festus for carnage."

"Hmm…" Irkand scratched his chin. "I'd switch Babette for Arnbjorn dressed in a Stormcloak uniform."

The werewolf grunted. Irkand could see the appeal he'd held for Astrid, given that the other choices were a lizard, an ancient and… well… Nazir had hinted a time or two he'd prefer Irkand's company to Astrid's. Which was flattering, as Nazir was a highly competent individual, but the renegade Blade preferred Astrid to the Redguard.

"Not going to get your hands dirty this time, tidbit?" Arnbjorn said, barely concealing his sneer.

"Given that I was the one who arranged for the framing and execution of Gaius Maro the Younger, that's a rather ill-considered remark," Irkand retorted mildly. "Not all deaths need be done by tooth and claw, mutt."

"Stop it, both of you," Astrid commanded with a weary sigh. The woman was looking strained because of the rivalry between Arnbjorn and Irkand for her affections; perhaps the Redguard should back off, but he saw his perfect woman shackled to a hairy barbarian and… well. The Night Mother was exasperated with him over the matter.

"Dear Irkand is the Listener," Cicero observed. "You should do as he commands."

"Cicero, Astrid is Speaker here and I respect that," Irkand chided the creepy little Keeper gently. "We listen to each other when advice is needed."

"Thank you, Irkand," Astrid said as Arnbjorn growled.

"He wants to get into your bed," the Nord growled. "I smell his lust constantly."

Irkand bared his teeth at the werewolf. "I could say the same about your body odour."

Astrid buried her face in her hands and sighed. Gabrielle patted her shoulder sympathetically as Babette rolled her eyes. "That's it, both of you. You're doing the next job together."

"The Emperor's assassination?" Irkand asked carefully. If there was conflict on the team during such a critical mission-

"No." Astrid's honeyed voice was tight with frustration. "Jarl Skald the Elder's managed to piss off his entire town and they've banded together to pay our fee for a Jarl."

"He's in Dawnstar, correct?" On coming to Skyrim, he'd learned as much as he could about the local rulers.

Cicero perked up. "There is an old Sanctuary in Dawnstar," he crooned. "Cicero will gladly show it to dear Irkand and smelly Arnbjorn."

Nazir rolled his eyes as Festus actually snickered. Arnbjorn growled and looked ready to rip the jester in two; Irkand smiled inwardly and nodded to the insane Imperial. "Your company will be welcome," he told the Keeper.

"Babette, go with them to make sure they'll behave," Astrid immediately ordered. "If the Sanctuary's salvageable, we might be able to look at expanding."

"Of course," the vampiric child agreed eagerly.

"The Listener, the dog, the unchild and the Fool of Hearts, Jarl-slaying they go! Up in the cold, up in the north, crimson shall stain the snow!"

_You have no idea,_ Irkand silently vowed. _No idea at all._

…

Dawnstar, 2nd Evening Star 4E 201

"If you think Dawnstar's bad, you should see Winterhold," the carriage driver observed as he pulled up the sturdy horse just outside of the small port town.

"I have," growled Arnbjorn. It had been a long and uncomfortable ride from Falkreath to Whiterun to Dawnstar; only Babette's presence had kept things… civil. Irkand knew he could count on Cicero in a fight, but Babette seemed to be loyal to the Dark Brotherhood as a whole. If he murdered Arnbjorn, she'd try to kill him, but if the werewolf tried to harm the Redguard…

_Too messy and obvious,_ he thought sourly as they got off the uncovered wagon. This was a one-person job, technically, but Astrid had been dropping hints it might be wise to leave Cicero at Dawnstar Sanctuary for a while. The Keeper got on her nerves.

He got on Irkand's too, but the Night Mother had sternly commanded to leave him be. _Unless you feel like tending my physical remains?_

Her pointed question left the jester alive… for now.

Arnbjorn had been all for getting into town, killing Skald and getting out, but Irkand hated rushed jobs. Instead he asked Babette to scout out the town (posing as a beggar girl), Cicero to return to the Sanctuary (after giving them the pass phrase) and Arnbjorn to buy them some hot food from the inn. The werewolf glared at him but said nothing as Babette agreed with the plan.

Irkand, in the meanwhile, decided to do some sightseeing. There was a museum located across the town dedicated to the Mythic Dawn, the assassins of the second-last Septim Emperor. Out of a sense of whimsy, the assassin strolled over there and listened to the court wizard, a spry Breton woman, giving its keeper a piece of her mind. He smirked, waited for the woman to leave, and smiled at Silus Vesuius.

"May I take a look?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, of course!" The man guided Irkand through the displays, proudly proclaiming his ancestry, and finally made the assassin a proposal that was utterly laughable: gather the shards of Mehrunes' Razor.

_That man is too stupid to live,_ the Night Mother noted ruefully. Since Cicero had allowed Irkand to help himself to a knuckle, he'd been able to hear Her everywhere. _Mehrunes Dagon only valued the Mythic Dawn's devotion so long as it served Him. Once Martin Septim banished Him back to Oblivion…_

"The price you're offering is generous," Irkand said aloud, unable to conceal his smirk, "but… it would an affront to my own great-grandmother were I to oblige you."

Silus blinked. "I don't understand."

"I am descended from Aurelia Northstar. You know, the one who ripped your little cult to shreds with her bare hands." Literally. The woman had favoured hand-to-hand, reputedly beating thirty-six men and women to death over the course of her three-day rise to the rank of Grand Champion.

Silus' face went slack in shock… just before he threw a fireball at Irkand's face. Not being very good at repelling Destruction spells, Irkand grabbed the nearest pot and threw it in the man's general direction, using the distraction to bolt for the front door.

"Help! Guards! Daedra worshipper!" he screamed as another fireball landed near him.

_Pot calling the kettle black, _the Night Mother observed amusedly as Irkand ran in the direction of the Jarl's Longhouse, like he was mad with panic.

_Mother dearest, please shut up._

Predictably, the guards ran in the other direction after seeing a conjured storm atronach chasing Irkand; the Redguard saw Babette's childlike grin in a gap between two houses and silently thanked her.

_You better hope that the court wizard doesn't know Mehrunes' preferences for fire over storms,_ the Night Mother pointed out.

_I wasn't expecting him to be a _mage.

_Most Mythic Dawn cultists were._ The Night Mother paused in her commentary before saying, _Careful, priest of Mara there._

Irkand shoved the Dunmer cleric aside, not wanting to offend the goddess of compassion. _Thanks for the warning._

_ You don't like killing priests?_

_ I can happily kill a self-righteous priest of seven Divines any day,_ he assured her. _I just don't like offending the goddesses of compassion and love unless I must._

_ Hmm, fair enough. I loved Sithis enough to send myself and our children to Him in the Void,_ she said thoughtfully.

He was just past the inn now and wondered where the hell Arnbjorn was.

_It appears, my son, that he is hoping Silus will kill you and has gone to kill Skald himself,_ the Night Mother observed softly.

_I didn't think he was that smart._ Irkand was starting to run out of breath despite years of conditioning and his Redguard stamina. Perhaps if he got lucky, Silus would hit the Jarl's Longhouse with a fireball and set the tar-soaked structure ablaze with the werewolf inside.

"Help! Someone!" The court wizard was trying desperately to dispel Babette's atronach in the doorway of the Jarl's Longhouse.

…Then she dove out of the way as Silus, maddened beyond sanity by a judicious use of Fury, threw a final fireball exactly where Irkand wanted it.

Irkand threw himself over the mage as the longhouse exploded, trusting she could shield them both. She did so, praying to Julianos under her breath, both of them helpless in the cocoon of force as people both good and bad died screaming. But even a Breton ran out of magicka… just before a beam of charred timber came crashing down upon them both.

…

Dawnstar Sanctuary, 4th Evening Star

Cool hands, awash with healing magic, ran over his flesh; Irkand groggily opened his eyes to meet the glowing golden gaze of Babette.

"You should be glad there was a stock of black soul gems here and a lot of dead people in Dawnstar," the child vampire said severely as he sat up, feeling the stretch of tender new flesh and skin.

"I wasn't expecting him to be a mage," the assassin admitted ruefully. Babette was a very good healer, it seemed; a neat trick for a vampire.

"And I wasn't expecting Arnbjorn to break with the plan," she noted with a sigh. "Astrid is going to be furious with him."

"He's not dead?" Irkand didn't bother to try hiding the disappointment in his voice.

"No. He shifted to werewolf form and fled south. He'll probably meet us back at Falkreath." Babette moved away, allowing him to see the dusty interior of what could only be Dawnstar Sanctuary.

"Thank you for saving me, Babette," Irkand said with true gratitude. She could have saved herself a lot of trouble by leaving him to die.

The unchild looked towards the shattered stained-glass window that hinted at a hidden entrance to the Sanctuary. "You're the best thing to happen to the Brotherhood in a long time," she finally said. "We have a Listener, a Speaker and a Silencer once more. We can only grow bigger and better."

"Cicero is glad dear Babette agrees with him!" crooned the jester, who walked in through the empty hole with rabbits in hand. Much to Irkand's surprise, he was dressed normally.

"I like jesters," the child observed sunnily. "And you are the Keeper."

Irkand forced himself to stand despite the misgiving looks of his Family. "What date is it?"

They told him and the assassin cursed. "Vittoria Vicci's wedding is tomorrow," he announced grimly. "I'd… planned to use the open nature of the event to finish the Emperor."

Babette and Cicero exchanged glances. "We could make it… but Astrid won't be happy if we do it without her say-so," Babette finally observed.

"Irkand is the Listener! It is he who makes the decisions!" the jester retorted.

Irkand was torn. Sithis above and beyond, he was torn. His sense of efficiency wanted this job done… but his love for Astrid stayed his hand until she felt it was time. "We'll have plenty of opportunity," he finally said. "Titus is living on the Katariah, which is moored in Solitude Bay."

"With the death of his heir, he'd probably welcome the embrace of Sithis," Babette noted.

"Then we go home and decide what to do with Arnbjorn. I swear, for his stupidity, I'll give his hide to Astrid as a wedding gift."

Cicero hummed approvingly as Babette sighed. No doubt she was loyal to the werewolf. "The Family will pass judgment," she said firmly. "But you're right… let's go home."

…

Castle Dour, 5th Evening Star

"The assassin died under torture, sir. It seemed that Commander Maro believed them responsible for the 'framing' of his son and was… excessively zealous in questioning the Argonian."

"Did we get anything useful out of him?" Tullius poured himself a cup of mead, wondering how Elisif was coping. Falk had bundled her to the Blue Palace and was refusing to let anyone see her, including the General.

"No, sir." Rikke paused. "However, we've managed to locate the Falkreath Sanctuary."

"Then send Maro there with three squads of Penitus Oculatus. Let the lazy bastards earn their pay for a change." _And eliminate that bastard Irkand,_ he added silently.

"Yes, sir." Rikke saluted and left.

"You won't stop them, Tullius."

"Your Imperial Majesty, you should be in bed," the General told Titus Mede as he wandered into the war room. "Today was a hard day."

"The Black Sacrament has been performed," Titus said wearily. "They'll do me a favour; I'll see Martin again soon enough."

"If you're hellbent on dying, I can't stop you," Tullius said through gritted teeth. "But you could at least name an heir."

"Martin was my heir," Titus responded bitterly. "Let the Empire fall, Tullius. I no longer care."

_Stendarr damn you!_ The General swallowed his mead and poured himself a new one. It was growing on him. Like Solitude and Elisif.

"Well, some of us do," said the Jarl of Solitude at the doorway. Tullius looked up to see the slender redhead wrapped in a light blue cloak, her hair unbound like no good Imperial woman's should be. But what Nords considered a good woman was vastly different to Colovian standards. Rikke was a good woman. Elisif could be. The General found he preferred a strong-minded lady.

"Why bother? Alduin will eat us all…" Suddenly Titus crumpled to the ground, caught by one of the Castle Dour guards.

"Calm spell," Elisif said serenely. "Take him back to the Katariah, Captain Aldis."

The head of the city guard nodded and left with another guard to carry the Emperor back to his ship.

"I feel for him, but the Empire can't afford weakness right now," Elisif continued firmly. "We can't stop the Dark Brotherhood with nothing short of a miracle, so we must prepare for their eventual… success."

"What are you suggesting?" Tullius asked warily.

"You and I marry. Torygg is dead… and…" Her lips quivered, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. "Balgruuf would make a better High King. Maybe even Emperor, but none of the Elder Council would have the sense to accept him, and a Dragonborn on the Ruby Throne would be a direct challenge to the Thalmor."

"You think I should… make a move for the throne once… Titus has left us." Tullius was tempted. Sorely tempted. It was skirting the edge of treason, but if it worked and he could get the support he needed from the Elder Council-

"If we end the Stormcloak rebellion, you'll control the biggest Legion army in Tamriel," Elisif continued softly. "Balgruuf would also stand with us if necessary."

"I barely know the man and you ask me to trust him," Tullius finally said.

"No, Tullius. She's asking you to trust _me._" The Colovian-accented voice was familiar, a silk-smooth alto with a velvety purr on the consonants, and the General spun around to regard a tall woman in segmented armour… accompanied by a bigger platinum-blond man in the ornate steel plate that Nord nobles loved so much.

"Martin is alive," Aurelia Too-Tall continued calmly. "But he will not be a pawn in political games. Not as a child, at any rate."

"The plan is Elisif's," the Nord male observed, his voice subtly thunderous. "She and you look beyond Skyrim. My _strunmah_ is here. My children are here. I will be content to protect it."

"You should be fighting to save Titus," Tullius noted dryly. "Unless you got Motierre to hire your uncle for the deed?"

Time amongst the Nords had robbed Aurelia of her dignitas; the half-blood woman's turquoise eyes widened in shock before narrowing in understanding. "Motierre… That bastard's working for the Thalmor. He arranged for… Martin to disappear and myself to nearly die in a shipwreck."

Another time, Tullius would have challenged her, but the Nord man – who had to be Balgruuf the so-called Dragonborn – was regarding him with cold gold-ringed blue eyes. "I'd think you to be more sentimental towards the man who raised you from a common orphan," he said instead.

Aurelia bared her teeth in a grimace, showing her slightly sharp lower canines. "I won't argue the point with you, Tullius. My loyalty is mostly to my son, not the man who made me a whore."

He… couldn't fault her for that. "At least let me tell Titus you and Martin are alive," he requested.

She looked torn but it was Elisif who shook her head. "No," the Jarl of Solitude disagreed. "If word gets out about the heir being alive, another war will start on who controls him."

"And the Thalmor will invade sooner, with a child-Emperor on the throne, than with a clever General," Balgruuf rumbled.

All he had to do was remain silent. Tullius couldn't argue with both of them; there was no clear Regent and with her association with the Blades and Aurelii descent, Aurelia could hardly be considered fit. _Besides, if Elisif and I have a son…_ "Fine."

Aurelia looked relieved. "We'll take care of the dragon problem, Tullius, and Ulfric if we can."

"Fine." Abruptly Tullius turned away, disgusted with himself. He knew about hard choices, but he was effectively letting his oldest patron die in despair to protect the future of the Empire.

Stendarr forgive him, because he could see no other option.

…

Falkreath Sanctuary, 8th Evening Star

His home was on fire.

If it wore a Penitus Oculatus uniform, it died. Irkand felt time slow around him as his Redguard blood surged in his veins, granting him greater speed and stamina while he carved his way through to the back of the Sanctuary, needing to find Astrid and the Night Mother. Nothing else mattered to him.

He found them together, Astrid clutching her stomach as Commander Maro stood above her, holding his pretty court sword to her throat. "You killed my son, bitch," he snarled. "I'll take your head back to Solitude."

"Ah, Maro?"

_"Irkand?"_ The Commander of the Penitus Oculatus turned away from Astrid to stare at the former Blade. "Did Tullius send you to help me out here? I've got everything under control."

"No. I'm here to tell you that I arranged for your son to be executed. If it's any consolation, he was innocent."

Maro's eyes widened… before he fell forward, Astrid's Blade of Woe buried in his back.

_My son, hide yourself in my coffin. Embrace me with your warmth,_ the Night Mother advised.

_I hope there's room enough for three,_ he said as he grabbed Astrid, pulling what was left of his magicka into a healing spell that he channelled into her, and stumbled into the sarcophagus. Cicero and Babette and whoever survived were on their own.

The door clanged shut and overbalanced, the heavy stone coffin fell through the stained-glass window into the pool below, driving Irkand into darkness once more.

…

"I'm not made of… muscles… you damned she-devil!"

"Well, I'm not made for manual labour," Babette retorted. "You and Cicero will need to pull them out."

Irkand slowly came to consciousness, feeling Astrid against him on one side and the Night Mother ice-cold on the other.

_I used the cold of the Void to slow down your need for breathing,_ she told him gently. _And called Cicero here._

_ You can speak to Cicero?_

_ Not exactly. I can manipulate him, the poor man._ She sighed. _He took good care of me, my son. If not for him, you would not have come to Astrid. Remember that._

_ …Fine._ Irkand owed the man for pulling him out of the lake with Nazir's help.

Finally they were free and the door open, Irkand inhaling gulps of smoky air. "I will kill them all," he vowed.

"Maro got away," Nazir reported. "I was more worried about you and Astrid."

"Maro is a creature of habit," Babette observed. "We'll find him. But we need to get out of here before the guard from Falkreath investigate."

"Agreed." Nazir helped Irkand out of the coffin and they then got Astrid, who was still unconscious, out. She was still breathing and though pale, she seemed alive.

"We'll be safe, beloved, I promise," he murmured in Redguard, combing her hair with his fingers. "I promise."

…

Loreius' Farm, 9th Evening Star

"Bother and befuddle! My wagon is stuck and I can't take my poor Family home!"

"Hell of a family you've got there," observed the farmer who'd come to investigate the wagon. "Two Redguards, a Nord and an Imperial jester-"

"My wife, my brother on the paternal side and my brother on the maternal side," Irkand interrupted. "We've escaped Cyrodiil and… it left my little brother touched in the head. We found him clinging to Mother's sarcophagus."

"Bruma-born, eh?" The farmer scratched his head as he stolidly thought his way through the flimsy story Irkand had concocted.

"Yes. My wife, well, she's a traditional Nord and you know how those fucking Thalmor are…"

"Eight and One…" The farmer shook his head. "My wife's Altmer. She fled Alinor because she was to be purged due to having a Bosmer father."

"I have no quarrel with anyone who hates Thalmor. We can pay-"  
The man shook his head again, eyes dazed from the Calm spell Irkand was using. "No, I'll help you. Just… be careful. There's a Talos shrine in the hills and I'm fairly sure the Thalmor lurk there in waiting."

"Thank you."

With Loreius' help, it took an hour to fix the jammed wagon. Clad in a rough brown dress not dissimilar to Curwe, Loreius' wife's, Astrid helped the woman prepare a light lunch of cheese and dried meat scavenged from a plundered bandit cottage outside of Falkreath. Irkand reminded himself to make sure the couple were unbothered. Dawnstar would be close enough for that.

They set out again, the road long and arduous when most of them were injured, but eventually they reached Dawnstar. It seemed a plague of nightmares kept the inhabitants inside and fearful, so they were able to get to the Sanctuary undetected… save by one.

"Children of Sithis." The Dunmer Priest of Mara stood before the Black Door, scarlet eyes gleaming in the light of the northern aurora. "Mara forgive me, but I need your help."

"Give us a few hours and we'll talk, unless you can heal," Irkand responded flatly.

"I can heal. But I should warn you that the town is under the influence of Vaermina," the priest said quietly. "I'm trying to access Nightcaller Temple to stop her nightmares."

_Aid him, my son,_ the Night Mother advised. _Vaermina is… dangerous. And she brooks no rivals._

_ Yes, Mother._ "Can it wait? We're injured and we need sleep."

The priest sighed. "I can give you a few hours' protection from her nightmares."

Erandur was as good as his word, easing Astrid's pain and healing the rest of them. Like the rest of his race, he did what he had to with grim pragmatism, a trait Irkand admired. He would have made a good Dunmer, he thought.

Falling asleep besides Astrid, he chose to believe that even though he belonged to Sithis, maybe the Aedra still looked over him.

…

Dawnstar Sanctuary, 12th Evening Star

"I… wanted to get the job done. I didn't realise that it was a body double."

Astrid's voice was hoarse as she confessed the deeds which had led to the deaths of most of their Family, the poisoned honey sweetness cracking with guilt and remorse. "Now I've ruined our Family and…"

"Most of us are dead," Nazir agreed with a sad sigh. "But we are alive. We have a Listener, a Speaker and a Silencer. More can be recruited."

"And now that the Falkreath Sanctuary is destroyed, they'll believe Titus safe," Irkand pointed out with a little smile. "They'll relax, think themselves safe…"

"We need that fee to rebuild this place," Babette added. "And anyway, didn't you say we could strike at any time?"

"I… did." Irkand rose to his feet, wrapping his cloak around the hollow-cheeked Astrid, and walked over to the empty hole that was their back door. "Tullius, for whatever reason, doesn't seem to have mentioned my status as a Brotherhood assassin."

"…You told him? Why the hell would you do that?" Nazir demanded.

"Because I am still an Imperial citizen. Tullius is the General with the strongest force, and if we can lend covert support to the Legion against the Stormcloaks, then he will be in a position to become Emperor."

"Motierre thinks he'll be Emperor," Astrid murmured.

"Motierre laid hands on my niece and her son," Irkand responded, a bit harsher than he should. "He only lives because he owes us a significant amount of coin."

"Irkand has family outside of the Family?" Cicero asked, sounding rather hurt at the idea.

"Family outside of the Family is Family unless they betray us," Astrid said flatly. "Besides, Irkand's nephew is with the Thieves' Guild."

"Thank you, my dear." Irkand smiled gently. "My niece is the Grand Master of the Blades. She's fighting to save us all."

"The dragons? Damn." Nazir shook his head in awe. "When we're set up, I'll arrange some blind drops for dragon words. I'd rather have Rustem's daughter on our side than against us."

Irkand looked at him askance but the Redguard clammed up, refusing to elaborate.

"Contact Delvin Mallory and work on getting this place liveable," he announced. "I intend to travel to Solitude and put the Emperor out of his misery."

"Irkand-" Astrid's voice was desperate. "Are you sure now's a good time? I've lost Arnbjorn, I-"

The renegade Blade knelt before her and clasped her hands with his. "I will come back," he promised. "In life or death… I will return to you."

Those would be words he kept all his days.


	23. Oathbreakers

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Short and sweet chapter, meant to be a cliffhanger. ;)

…

**Oathbreakers**

Sky Haven Temple, 15th Evening Star 4E 201

"The Dragonborn cannot be held to the oaths of lesser men."

_"The Blades have always sought to lead the Dragonborn away from the path of wisdom."_

"You're doing what's necessary, Balgruuf. Talos betrayed Culhecain to form the Empire."

_"A man must keep his oaths, no matter what."_

"Besides, Titus left us to the mercies of the Thalmor. He deserves what's coming."

_"No oathbreaker will see the mists of Sovngarde…"_

"Leave me. I need to think."

Delphine and Esbern rose to their feet, looking visibly offended. Since his trip with Lia to Solitude, Balgruuf had been troubled by how readily he'd fallen in with Elisif's scheme. Politically and pragmatically, it made sense. Morally, however…

"I am an oathbreaker," he admitted aloud. "All for the sake of the Jagged Crown."

"What does that make me then?"

Despite the dark mood which was upon him, Balgruuf found a smile at the sound of Lia's voice. "In good company," he managed to jest as the Grand Master slipped inside.

"Titus deserves better than to die believing his son is dead," she said regretfully as she sat on the fur pallet which Esbern had vacated. "He served Tamriel faithfully, as best he could, you know."

"I know," Balgruuf agreed. "But neither of us can afford to die if we get in the way of the Dark Brotherhood."

"I know," Lia echoed. "I just-"

_"JUNSEAHROL!"_

The roar of his draconic name rumbled Sky Haven Temple and compelled Balgruuf to seek out the one who dared call him. He began to snarl, his Thu'um rising to answer, as Athis came darting into the private room granted to the Dragonborn.

"There's a dragon just above the courtyard," the Dunmer, who'd become a friend to the Jarl as they travelled across Skyrim and was a welcome Blade, announced grimly. "He's not Shouting at us, but…"

"On it." Balgruuf grabbed Dragonbane and rose to his feet, Lia joining him. She snapped a few orders to have the few archers in the Blades ready with bows as they headed towards the courtyard.

Sky Haven Temple was on the second highest peak in Skyrim with a view of the Reach that was nothing short of spectacular. Normally Balgruuf would appreciate the view better, but having a small, cream-white dragon hovering just out of bowshot ruined the moment. He was fine-boned compared to the monsters Balgruuf normally fought, but his ice-blue eyes glittered with pride and the horned head was tilted curiously.

_"Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin, Bruniikke,"_ he greeted in what could only be described as a polite tone. _"Zu'u Tayfunvahzah."_

"Why are we letting it speak?" Delphine demanded as she ran outside. "Kill it!"

"Hold your fire," Lia counter-ordered. "I heard the word for 'peace' in there. And he could have eaten most of you by the time Balgruuf got out here."

The dragon coughed in embarrassment. _"Krosis,"_ he said apologetically. "I said 'Peace Fire Sky'. It is a peaceful greeting amongst the dovahhe."

"He also introduced himself," Balgruuf observed. Dovahzul, learned from the word walls and Esbern's books, had become his second language in a matter of months. "His name is Tayfunvahzah. 'Tale Told True'."

"I am a small dovah," the dragon admitted readily. "I carry messages for the greater dovahhe so they will not devour me."

"Kill it," Delphine demanded tersely. "It's a dragon. It needs to die."

"If you don't shut up, Delphine, I will let you be his first evening snack," Lia commanded through gritted teeth. "We don't violate the laws of hospitality."

"Fall back and let him land," Balgruuf ordered as the two female Blades glared at each other. Thankfully, the rest obeyed him, veterans like Athis understanding a dragon was most vulnerable upon the ground.

Tayfunvahzah landed delicately, laying his head upon the ground submissively before Balgruuf. "Dovahkiin," the dragon greeted. "I have been charged to carry a message for you from Paarthunax."

It took Balgruuf a few moments to remember the name… and Delphine gasped in angry recognition. "The Greybeards' Grand Master… used to be Alduin's chief lieutenant," she said flatly. "That's the heart of our quarrel with those old bastards at High Hrothgar, Dragonborn."

"Kaan persuaded Paarthunax and a few others, myself included, to teach the _joorre_ the power of the Thu'um," Tayfunvahzah explained quietly. "Alduin… has not forgiven us."

"Few forgive oathbreakers," Balgruuf agreed. "But… it was necessary."

"Alduin had his place. He chose to defy Akatosh and set himself up as ruler of the dovahhe," the dragon continued. "If it had been Akatosh's will, Kaan would not have come to us."

Lia approached Balgruuf and Tayfunvahzah, her eyes wide with fascination and wonder. "So you're the draconic equivalent of a diplomat," she observed.

"Dragons are creatures that wish only to conquer and rule us until Alduin swallows the world," Esbern said warningly.

"How much of that is because they've got that big black bastard breathing down their shoulders?" Lia countered.

"…I can't say. But Lia, by our oaths as Blades, we must oppose all dragons."

"As Grand Master, I have the right to alter the oaths-"

"That's it!" Delphine strode towards Aurelia, drawing her dai-katana. "I've let you play at being Grand Master because the Dragonborn was most familiar with you and listens to your advice. But to cooperate with a dragon because he _seems_ friendly? That's going too far. I'm challenging you for the position as Grand Master."

"They live up to their name," Tayfunvahzah observed quietly. "_Bruniikke._ Savages. Akaviri."

"I cannot stop this," Balgruuf muttered to the dragon. "But if Lia dies, Delphine will follow her."

Despite having become adequate with a katana, Lia was far from proficient as a warrior; she relied on her knowledge, cunning and silver tongue to bring people together, letting others provide the muscle. Delphine was not nearly so eloquent, but she was a warrior through and through.

But Lia fearlessly pulled off her thick fur parka to reveal a heavy wool tunic and unsheathed the Oathblade, its edge gleaming quicksilver-blue in the cold morning light. "If I die, you are to obey the Dragonborn without question," she told the assembled Blades.

Her eyes flickered to Balgruuf once before Delphine attacked, her speed incredible for a woman about ten years older or more than most of the people in the courtyard. The Dragonborn held out his hand helplessly, knowing that there was nothing he could do despite all the Shouts he knew.

…

Solitude

Armaund Motierre wanted away from this hellhole of ice and snow. But his duty to the Empire compelled him to remain until the deed was done and a permanent peace secured with the Aldmeri Dominion. Some would call him an oathbreaker, but a greater duty to the Empire prevailed over vows made to an old man who had deliberately tried to reignite the war with the Thalmor despite Cyrodiil being in ruins.

He regretted what happened to Martin Mede, who was fundamentally innocent, but what was one lad's life compared to that of a million? But it seemed his mother didn't have the decency to lay down and die like the whore she was. Resurrecting the Blades-?

"Nice house."

The smooth, almost oiled baritone was on the polite shade of mocking as air stirred where it shouldn't. Armaund spun around and swore when he saw nothing. As he turned, footsteps echoed on the stone floor, indicating the speaker was staying behind him somehow.

"When will be the next time Mede will be ashore?" asked the voice, which was both vaguely familiar and thick with a Colovian noble accent.

"I thought the Dark Brotherhood was competent," the Breton Councillor observed. "But instead you got yourself slaughtered by that incompetent Maro."

"Every now and then a rosebush needs pruning," the voice countered dryly. "Now when will be the next time Mede comes ashore?"

"I… don't know." For some reason, the utter assurance of the speaker frightened Motierre more than being unable to see him. "The Emperor is scared-"

"The Emperor is a tired old man whose world has been shattered by your actions," the assassin pointed out with a touch of scorn. "You've destabilised Cyrodiil considerably, Motierre."

"Why should you care?" retorted the politician.

"Just because I am a son of Sithis doesn't mean I'm not a patriot," the speaker answered. "Mede is bad for the Empire."

"I gave you the target and will pay you handsomely. I shouldn't have to do any more."

"You opened the gates of darkness by performing the Black Sacrament," the assassin responded pitilessly. "Now tell me when Mede will leave the Katariah. It's harder to make a clean kill on a crowded boat."

"Ship," the son of a Northpoint sailor corrected absently. "But… he will be ashore today. Elisif is planning a Moot-"

"_Jarl_ Elisif. If you would be Emperor, you should learn to address foreign dignitaries correctly," the assassin said mildly.

"I don't think someone who murders for a living should be lecturing me on diplomatic protocol!" Motierre snapped.

"I don't think someone who has broken the most sacred of oaths should be lecturing an assassin on anything," the assassin drawled sardonically. "The Blue Palace, I assume?"

"No, Castle Dour. The Emperor's Tower."

"Hmm, you should have been a poet." Then the air stirred once more and silence fell upon the stone shack he was renting.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that the Breton realised the wetness on his breeches was urine.

…

The Emperor's Tower

"Irkand. Somehow I always knew it would be you."

"You failed my niece and her son, Titus. I really couldn't let that pass."

"I could accept a personal reason, but to be paid – no doubt generously – for the deed takes some of the lustre from your reasoning."

"If it's any consolation, the coin will set up my new Family quite nicely." The assassin paused and murmured, just loud enough for Titus to hear, "They live. And the succession is assured until Martin is of age and makes his own decisions."

The Emperor felt his knees buckle in relief and gratitude. "Tullius?"

"Of course. And Elisif. She's smarter than most give her credit for."

"And what if the esteemed General should sire his own lineage?"

"There will be at least one daughter, I am assured. The Imperial line could stand a little more Nord blood."

Titus fell to his knees, drawing out his Amulet of Talos. "Tiber Septim allowed himself to look weak at Sancre Tor so he could attack from behind."

"I know. No one faults your decisions, aside from a few Nords who are so congenitally moronic that they've managed to piss off their prophesised saviour."

Titus found himself laughing at the Aurelii's acerbic humour. "The Dragonborn is _that _touchy?"

"Those rumbles a few days ago were him swearing in Dragonish, I am told." Irkand paused again and added casually, "He's in love with my niece."

"Aurelia always was a practical woman." It stung, a little, that she hadn't even waited until he was dead.

"Practical? She's insane. She's refounding the Blades!" Irkand sighed and Titus imagined the assassin shaking his head. "But she is no longer your problem."

"True…" Titus sighed. "Might I make two requests?"

"Of course."

"One, tell the boy and his mother I'm proud of them, no matter what. Two… Kill the bastard who did this."

"Done and done. I was planning to kill Motierre anyway, but I'm just waiting for the coin."

"You were always practical, Irkand." Titus closed his eyes. "May I pray?"

"Of course."

"Talos, Lord of Emperors, be with me in these final moments-"


	24. Keep-Away

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Another short and sweet chapter.

…

**Keep-Away**

Korvanjund, 19th Evening Star

"Why are we doing this again?"

Cynric had half a dozen other places he'd rather be than this old tomb, but someone had hired him and Rune to burgle the place, so here they were. Since Karliah had taken over as Guild Master alongside Delvin, Brynjolf and Vex, business had been booming. Hell, the Dark Brotherhood kitting out their new digs in Dawnstar had brought in enough coin for the jailbreaker to finally buy that new mattress he'd wanted and a bed to match.

"Because, my brother in crime, we will each earn five hundred septims from retrieving this one object and may keep everything else we find in the tomb on top of that," the dark-haired Nord responded patiently.

"If this doesn't involve the Civil War, then I'm an Orc," Cynric observed dryly as they descended the stairs, kicking aside the corpses of the unlicensed bandits stupid enough to attack two Guildsmen.

"I would be unsurprised to discover we are stealing the Jagged Crown," Rune agreed.

"…It's worth a lot more than five hundred septims-"

"A wise man never extorts from his clients. He keeps his prices reasonable and they come back to be shorn again and again." Rune looked down at the foreboding structure and added, "Though it is a pity neither side has the courage to get it themselves."

"Pfft. I don't care who rules so long as I am paid."

"And this is why you will be in debt as an old man."

"I will have lived well."

They entered the tomb and encountered the usual run of draugr. But when they broke into the crypt itself, all they found were scattered corpses and the wind blowing through a hidden door that had been left open.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Cynric said disgustedly. "Can you track them, Rune?"

His compatriot, the best wilderness scout in the Guild, raised his hands and cast Clairvoyance. _So that's how he does it,_ the jailbreaker mused.

"No," the dark-haired Nord said regrettably. "Whoever did this… knew what they were doing."

"Sonuvabitch. We get to head back to the Guild Masters and tell them someone beat us to the job."

…

Riften, 20th Evening Star

Martin had come to the conclusion ages ago that Stormcloak couriers really weren't that bright. As rightful heir of the Empire and the future King of Thieves, it was his duty to steal every package he could from the rebels in Riften (and the few Imperial couriers who slunk through because he had to keep up with news somehow). So when the blond courier who spoke with a similar accept to the Dragonborn entered Haelga's Bunkhouse for some entertainment, it was the work of a moment to help himself to the man's canvas package while he spent time with Haelga like Papa had with Mama.

It was heavier than he thought, so Martin wrapped the bit of crappy canvas he kept with him and slung it over his shoulder, trudging along like a reluctant apprentice. Brynjolf was teaching him all sorts of tricks. When Martin became Emperor, he was going to make the man Jarl of Riften after outlawing evil orphanages, goat's milk and stale honey cakes.

In Riften, everybody minded their own business. Unless it was Maven Black-Briar. Then she stuck her nose everywhere. She claimed to own both the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, but Martin was pretty certain no one owned Uncle Irkand. At the moment, she was looking down at one of the Dunmer, a red-haired woman with blood-red eyes, and treating her like dirt. "Is a simple job too hard for you to do?" the matriarch of a very corrupt family asked scornfully. "Perhaps I should have you… replaced?"

The Dunmer didn't look fazed. Martin thought she looked a bit familiar and her ring, a moon-and-star of platinum, looked expensive but was enchanted. His sense of the future (which was generally limited to 'good idea' and 'bad idea' when it came to what he was doing) was telling him that he shouldn't steal it.

"You must be mistaking me for someone else," the dark elf replied dryly. She wore heavy bone armour.

"You're a Dunmer in Riften. That makes you my servant."

Her name finally came to Martin. "Hi Irileth!" he chirped, waving at her.

The dark elf actually sighed. "There you are," she said, walking over to grab the boy by his collar. "Now you know why I was… loitering, Maven."

"The Stormcloaks would love your head on a platter," the Black-Briar woman observed threateningly. "Why are you in my city?"

"None of your damned business." Irileth turned away from Maven and dragged Martin with her. Knowing that look in an adult's eyes, he decided not to argue with her. She was annoyed.

They were in the Ratways before she took the parcel from him. "Tell Brynjolf the gold will be in the usual place," she informed him. "And tell him that using you as a courier was a bad idea."

"…I stole that from a Stormcloak," Martin admitted, confused.

"…Tell him anyway." Irileth shook her head. "And stay out of sight, boy. Your mother is becoming more known and sooner or later, someone will put two and two together."

"Yes Irileth," Martin said obediently. The whole point of him being in the Thieves' Guild was to hide from the people who wanted him to not be Emperor. Which was the Thalmor and Motierre and Ulfric and maybe even Mama…

She smiled and tossed him a small bag of coins. "Buy yourself a sweet roll. Anything you want me to tell your mother?"

"I love her."

"She loves you too."  
Then she faded into the shadows with a skill Karliah would envy, and Martin realised he didn't know what had been in the package he'd stolen.

…

The Palace of the Kings, 21st Evening Star

It sucked to be Ralof.

Having secured an unknown package from his brothers in Whiterun, he'd managed to have it pilfered while in Riften, taking the roundabout path commanded of him by Ulfric. Now he was before the Stormcloak himself trying to explain his failure.

Unfortunately, boiling it down to "I was fucking Haelga and some thief stole the package you wanted" couldn't be phrased better. Fortunately, Ulfric settled for cursing and calling for Oengus War-Anvil to do something about those dragon bones which were turning up on the market…

…

The Argonian Assemblage

Scouts-Many-Marshes threw another tarp over the belongings of the Dunmer. The Argonians were anything but stupid; helping themselves to the Dunmer's goods would invite a vicious reprisal. Besides, why make Ulfric happy?

Okay, a few blankets and the food had gone missing. Scouts considered it payment for keeping the stuff out of the rain and his people needed the warmth in this cold harsh land.

He knew it was a wise decision when a Dunmer in Morrowind bone armour arrived on the docks after the Nords had gone home and headed for the East Empire Company. They were having trouble with pirates and he supposed she was looking to do them a favour. No one liked the Shatter-Shields on the docks.

"What is your name?"

Scouts paused in the middle of helping himself to a jar of sujamma. It helped ease the aches of too much work and Shahvee was looking seedy. "I am Scouts-Many-Marshes," he said submissively to the Dunmer, hoping she wouldn't kill him. He couldn't help his people if he was dead.

"Thank you for guarding our belongings and proving Ulfric wrong." The woman flashed a smile, only her teeth visible in the gathering twilight gloom. "The perishables are yours and blankets can be rewoven."

"You are most kind, honoured lady-"

"Our races haven't the best history, but we hate Ulfric more."

"…We are not fighters." Not the people in Windhelm, at least…

The Dunmer smiled again. "I know. How deep do the sewers run?"

"…Deep. Only Argonians could swim that far down."

"And Dunmer with waterbreathing rings." She picked up the bottle of sujamma and handed it to him. "If Nords come for our goods, do not stop them. I will not see you be harmed without cause."

Scouts blinked. "Why would a Dunmer care so much about Argonians?"

"Because you have protected our goods." The Dunmer looked up towards the walls of Windhelm. "And we both hate Ulfric."

The Argonian smiled. "Thank you, milady."

"When Azura's Star is held in the Shadow's Hand and dawn shines in the Lover's hair, you would be wise to remain hidden if you are not fighters."

"I don't understand-"

"Neither do I. I only speak the words of Azura. Thank you again for your service."

Then she turned and left to enter the office. Scouts tucked the sujamma under one arm and the package he must have dropped in the other, wondering just what the hell happened.

…

From dockworker to preacher, peasant to refugee, warrior to mage, the Jagged Crown passed through the hands of Skyrim's people, bathing in the collective soul of a nation once more. Finally it wound up where it was supposed to be… and no one expected it. Only one man noted it, but he was more than a little mad, and preoccupied with trying to contact his god.

And time unfurled, uncaring, as Alduin lifted his head and cried a challenge at the Throat of the World.


	25. The Dawnbringer

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Playing with the Break of Dawn quest for convenience and storyline. Yes, I'm also playing with Daedric artefacts because I can. And lots of head-canon concerning Meridia, Dibella and Molag Bal. Trigger warning: implied child neglect and extreme survival methods.

…

**Dawnbringer**

Mount Kilkreath, 25th Evening Star 4E 201

Balgruuf jammed Dragonbane into the dragon's eye and twisted, feeling the vibration of its last breath through the quicksilver blade. He closed his eyes as the familiar surge of energy filled his soul, carrying with it a name: _Forkriindven,_ Calls Killing Wind. The Dragonborn murmured a prayer for the dragon who couldn't be swayed, so fearful of Alduin was he, and contemplated the words of Tayfunvahzah: _"We are what we are, Dovahkiin. But how much of it is because of Alduin?"_

Of the dragons who had given allegiance to the Aedra and by extension mankind, only Paarthunax and Tayfunvahzah remained. And of them, only the little white messenger dragon could fly freely as he knew how to remain hidden in the clouds. Balgruuf sighed, leaning on the Akaviri blade once the rush of taking another dragon's soul passed. He felt like a kinslayer.

_But I will do as I must until Alduin is either dead or the dragons acknowledge my strength, _he thought regretfully.

"His name was Forkriindven," he said aloud as Esbern emerged from behind the word wall. Since the duel atop Sky Haven Temple, the loremaster had become almost obsequious around the Dragonborn, fearful of any reprisal. Balgruuf failed to tell him that he'd never punish a man for an honestly held opinion, only for treachery. "He preferred mutton to men."

"Shall I call for a sheep then?"

"You should be in bed back in Sky Haven," he retorted, though the severe look he was attempting was lost in a grin.

"The Moot is in three days. I don't have the luxury of rest."

"Do you think the customary toast to the dead Emperor will be celebratory or funerary?" Esbern asked dryly.

Lia flashed the Breton loremaster a grim glance. "Titus deserves to be mourned."

"Perhaps by you. The rest of us remember being hunted across Tamriel like beasts." Esbern held up his hand to quell Lia's retort. "I'm not disagreeing with you, Grand Master, only pointing out you had it relatively easy compared to Delphine and I."

Balgruuf forbore to mention that living in a Khajiit caravan, then being raised to become an elite prostitute for her clan and the late Emperor's ambitions could be harrowing in its own way. Lia simply shook her head and limped towards the dragon's hoard – which in reality was the stuff a dragon puked up after eating warriors whole and digesting anything not enchanted – to pick through it.

"Disenchant, melt down, throw into the communal chest…" Her hand closed around a faceted white stone before light burst from it, illuminating her too-thin form as her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

Esbern caught Balgruuf's arm before he could reach for her. "That's Daedric magic!" he hissed. "She is expendable – you aren't."

It was heartbreaking to watch Lia trapped in a rigid kneeling posture, that harsh white light surrounding a body stripped down to its last reserves because of accelerated magical healing, and know there was nothing he could do. Nearly as painful as watching her be run through by Delphine, only to drag herself up to the Breton warrior and bury her offhand dagger into the side of the neck. It was telling that Onmund, their only healer, focused on Lia instead of Delphine.

Finally the artefact released her; Lia slumped forward, her head lolling as she muttered, "Fucking hell."

Balgruuf shoved past Esbern, uncaring if he was rough with the old man, and fell to his knees by Lia's side. "Are you alright?" he asked urgently.

"Yeah, I'm great," the Grand Master responded, rubbing her eyes like she had a headache with one hand. "Meridia just wants me to stick this in her statue, which is just below us, and then go clear out her temple of undead because some sick bastard's using the war to practice his Conjuration."

"Not like we don't have a million other things to do before the Moot," Esbern groused. "Can't you throw that stone away or something?"

Lia tossed it to her left hand and threw it towards the ledge. It immediately returned to her hand and she winced again. "Meridia says… nope."

"Let us be done with it then," Balgruuf decided. "It shouldn't take long."

"Yeah, good idea," Lia agreed. "Meridia doesn't understand the meeting of 'shut up and be patient'."

…

"'Shouldn't take long,' he said."

_"My light must penetrate every crevice of My temple and cleanse it of this foul darkness."_

"Meridia. Shut up."

_"You are My Champion. Why do you not appreciate the honour and glory?"_

"Because a) I worship Dibella and b) I serve the Dragonborn. Not a Daedra."

_"Even Dibella stands against the undead."_

"_Vampires_, Meridia. She doesn't give a rat's ass about zombies."

_"Many vampires employ the foul art of necromancy."_

"Yeah, and technically the ban against Conjuration also extends to dealing with Daedric Princes. Like you."

_"You should not have taken up My beacon."_

"I picked it up because it was shiny."

_"See, you are drawn to the Light. Embrace it, My Champion! Embrace the shine of My certitude!"_

"Kill me, please…"

…

"Fascinating. The beams of light guide you through the temple and open the doors."

"Yippee, Daedric magic for you."

Lia stifled a groan as her newly healed wound pulled as Balgruuf helped her up a ledge. Esbern, the old bastard, was spryer than she at the moment.

The past ten or so days were officially in the top five worst times of her life. Knowing that she'd officially forsaken her oaths to the Emperor because the Dragonborn demanded it… and because she was bitter at the way her life had turned out. If Titus hadn't taken notice of her and chosen her, Martin wouldn't be born, she wouldn't be here…

_"You fight against dark forces,"_ Meridia observed, moderating her harsh tone a little. _"Alduin himself…"_

"Well, technically Balgruuf's fighting him. I'm just supporting him."

_"It matters not. You will bring My light into dark places and…"_

"Please shut up, Meridia."

Lia touched her hand to the beacon, letting the polished white stone float up to channel the beam to the next one. "This should have been built on the promontory," she observed dryly. "Could have used it as a lighthouse."

Then she slumped against the pedestal, breathing harshly. Onmund wasn't the best of healers and he'd literally stripped her body of its reserves – fat and muscle – to heal the gut-stab Delphine had inflicted. Lia knew going into the duel she wouldn't win; she was focused on taking out the ruthless Blade and then dying. Balgruuf and Martin would miss her, but… with her death, she could atone for failing her lord and Emperor when he needed her the most.

"You shouldn't be doing this," Balgruuf murmured.

"I must," she responded, knowing Meridia wouldn't allow anyone else to finish the task of lighting the beacons.

_"Indeed… You seem under duress. Is the exertion too much?"_

"I was stabbed in the gut ten days ago, if that's what you mean by 'duress'," Lia observed sarcastically to the Daedric Prince.

"By a subordinate who refused to follow orders," Balgruuf added flatly.

"Delphine's challenge was legitimate, if ill-advised," Esbern countered quietly. "Much like Ulfric's duel with Torygg."

Lia noticed the muscles in Balgruuf's arm tense as he clenched one gauntleted fist. Now that the cat was at least halfway out of the bag, the former Jarl was running around in his Skyforge Steel plate, lacking only a crown to look the part of a King. "Do you know, Esbern, what it is to watch helplessly as someone who is important to you fights for their life in a battle they can't win? I do. It happened to me with Ulfric and it happened to me with Lia. Do not remind me."

She forced herself to stand. "I can move."

The Dragonborn's jaw set stubbornly before he nodded. "Let us be done with this. What happens here is abomination."

_"I like him. Pity he belongs to Akatosh and Shor."_

They reached a balcony which afforded a spectacular view of Skyrim's northern coast. Lia sank to the ground, exhausted, as Esbern pulled out hunks of bread and cheese. Balgruuf was investigating a stone cache nearby. "We can't return to the old ways," Lia finally said to the Breton loremaster. Some things weren't her lord's business.

"…I _know_ that," Esbern responded in frustration. "I… just… Delphine hauled my sorry carcass from Cloud Ruler on her back, Grand Master. Your parents fled once the gates were breached, but…"

"Dar'saad locked me in a listening hole with his kit," Lia admitted softly. "Shraa died during those nine days and…"

There were some things too grim and dark for the Grand Master to confess to the last of an old guard. Some things Lia would take with her to the grave.

"We fled to Hammerfell. Dar'saad fought the Thalmor as best he could with the remnants of the Khajiit Blades, but even they fell and finally he was left. In the caravans, I fought with the other kits for food, for scraps of knowledge, for a blanket. It was only when I got too tall that Dar'saad sent for Uncle Irkand. You know the rest of the story."

_I didn't live in the lap of luxury, old man. I was just civilised enough to be the potgirl in Aurelia Swan-Neck's entourage when Titus took notice of me. Yes, I was literate, because the Khajiit value knowledge. Yes, I could hold a conversation with anyone from an Altmer to an Argonian, but only because the fairest of races must be able to speak every tongue to trade and trick. Even though Dar'saad took care of me, even knowing how Shraa died and how I survived those nine days, I was still an outsider amongst Azurah's children. You fled to Winterhold and only had to flee to Riften after the Thalmor sent Ancano there; even in the Warrens, you were living pretty bloody comfortably without needing to answer to anyone but the Guild._

_ I lived in luxury for about a decade and eight of those were spent as the Emperor's whore. You know _nothing_ of what I've been through. Being called a whore in front of my son, being forced to entertain the Emperor's favourites in addition to fucking an old man who needed Stallion's Potion to function in bed…_

_ "You have been to dark places," _Meridia noted. _"Yet you have not fallen into them yourself."_

"Even in the darkest place, Meridia, there's the memory of light to hold you…" Lia wasn't fond of the dark though. Small, dark spaces like these tombs terrified her, though dignitas held her steady and snapping at the Daedric Prince allowed her to vent her feelings.

_"If any monsters bother you in the darkness, tell me and I will slay them."_

Irkand was _not_ a good person. But he'd been there and was the only one to know the depths of Bruma and Cloud Ruler. Her uncle loved her and she instinctively knew that he had a hand in the Emperor's death. Because no one harmed Irkand's family and lived.

_Why do I keep on being thrown into dark places?_

_"Because you bring light to them. And with My help, you will banish the shadows from Skyrim."_

"Thanks a lot," Lia observed sarcastically.

_"You are welcome."_

…

Solitude Lighthouse, 26th Evening Star (Dawn)

"Of all the Divine-damned things…"

Tullius lowered his spyglass once the glowing woman had descended back to earth, shaking his head in bemusement. Since the murder of Titus Mede, Solitude had been subdued, nervous; Elisif was still going ahead with the Moot. Irkand had been true to his word; the Emperor's throat had been neatly cut, his body arranged with honour on the bed. As befitted Imperial funereal customs, no true member of the Legion would cut his or her hair for a year and a day.

"The Dawnbringer," murmured Thane Bryling, one of Elisif's more sensible followers. Tllius flashed her a look and the Solitude native looked in the direction of Mount Kilkreath. "Meridia has a statue up there and once a generation She chooses the Dawnbringer, someone dedicated to fighting the undead. But it's more than that. They bring hope to the dark places, of which there is plenty in Haafinger."

"…Meridia is a Daedric Prince and worshipping Her is illegal in the Empire," Tullius finally said.

"And the Dunmer will ignore you and continue worshipping their gods; the Orcs honour Malacath; and the Khajiit are the children of Azurah," Bryling responded calmly. "In Skyrim, the gods of sun and summer have been honoured for years since the coming of the First Men."

Tullius sighed, rubbing his bearded chin. He'd be damned if he ever understood the Nords. "Here's to hoping she isn't another Umaril the Unfeathered," he muttered.

"Any sign of Ulfric?" Elisif asked, having remained silent.

"Not yet." Tullius glanced to her. "I hope this plan of yours works, Elisif. Or my Emperor died for nothing."

Elisif smiled. "There _will_ be a Jagged Crown, I promise."

"Given it was made from dragon's teeth and Balgruuf's left plenty of those around, what do you bet Ulfric has thought of the same thing?" Bryling, a shrewd politician, pointed out.

"It's under control," the Jarl of Solitude promised. "Trust me."

Tullius _hated_ when someone said that.


	26. Shenanigans

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. If you've been reading this story for 25+ chapters, you'll know the Hero of Kvatch was in my head-canon. So… yeah. Very different Madgod with an emphasis on the Dunmeri interpretation. She also oversees random chance and advancement in times of chaos.

…

**Shenanigans**

Blue Palace, 25th Evening Star 4E 201 (Night)

Elisif couldn't sleep.

The Jarl of Solitude arose from her bed, throwing her light blue cloak about herself, and tiptoed out of her bedroom past a snoring Bolgeir Bearclaw. Since Torygg's death, since the meeting at Jorrvaskr, she has been bundled up in silk and stage-managed by Falk, who means well but fails to understand that she is more than a pretty face.

Tullius doesn't. He sees the woman – _oh gods Torygg forgive me but Skyrim, Tamriel, needs me, needs a Nord Empress _– and once she's gotten past the Colovian dignitas, appreciates her strength. She's been channelling Rikke and Aurelia Too-Tall – gods, who would have thought her a _Blade_ – and maybe a little bit of Potema. Just a little bit. The confident, manipulative part who knew she should be Empress.

_Potema's not the best inspiration, _her conscience reminded her as she padded barefoot through the throne room. The guards were few up here, thank the Divines, because she didn't want to get chivvied back to bed. She knew that nearly every male official, married and unmarried, saw her as a route to power.

As chatelaine of the Blue Palace, she had keys to every room, including Pelagius' Wing. In the need for some peace and quiet as the Moot approached and being forced to face Ulfric, she headed down the left staircase, keeping an eye out for guards, and went to the door. It was the work of a few moments to unlock it and slip inside.

Within, it was damp and musty, this part of the Palace never aired out. _I should change that,_ she thought. _Why let it go to waste-?_

A burst of inchoate light in colours best not described blinded her – and when her vision cleared, she was nowhere on Nirn.

…

"You are far too hard on yourself, my dear, sweet, homicidally insane Pelagius. What would the people do without you? Dance? Sing? Smile? Grow old?"

The speaker was an Imperial man with an exaggerated Breton accent, clad in motley of purple and green with all the lace and lacings of late Septim era fashion. He was talking to a golden-haired man with the look of an Altmer to him. They were having an elegant tea that Elisif hadn't seen since her time in the Imperial City.

"Sheogorath," she breathed, recognising tales from her childhood. _Am I going mad?_

"Only if you're weak," observed a rich contralto from behind. Elisif spun around to face a freakishly tall woman with muscles to make an Orc weep with envy, her bronze skin pitted and scarred, hands rough with callused knuckles and swollen joints. She wore the ancient white and gold skirted armour of the Grand Champion of the Arena, wiry iron-grey hair cropped short and bound with a dark rag, and a ritual wazikashi stuck into her belt. Her eyes were green, clear as sunlight through spring leaves but burning with a febrile light.

"And if I am not?" Elisif countered, screwing up the courage which had started to grow the day she met Kodlak. She was a Nord and she wouldn't back down. Not for Ulfric, not for anyone!

"Then you will be." The woman grinned, showing a mouth full of chipped yellowed teeth. "That is a shadow of Sheogorath, the one I knew. I left him there because he's good fun and everyone expects him to be like that."

Elisif bowed her head politely. "I am Elisif, Jarl of Solitude," she greeted.

"Most people call me Sheogorath, but once I was known as Aurelia Northstar," the woman – the Daedric Prince of Madness – responded with another grin.

"I guess madness can be defined in many ways," Elisif observed politeness. "It isn't always motley and mania."

"Or Dementia and drabness," Northstar agreed. "I battled my way through the Shivering Isles and kicked Jyggalag's arse from here to Oblivion and back again. But I liked the crazy bastard I replaced, so I kept him around."

"I didn't mean to intrude upon your domain," Elisif said softly.

"I didn't mean to become Grand Champion, Guild Master and Grand Master either. I didn't mean to oversee the death of Martin Septim. But it happened because of random chance." Northstar shrugged those bulky shoulders. "You're here now and you can't leave."

"I… have to. The killer of my husband will be here in two days and-"

Northstar held her hand up to forestall Elisif's begging. "You can't leave unless you're strong-willed. Part of My role is to test the minds of mortals with madness."

Elisif shuddered. "What will it be? Torture? Illusions?"

"Nah. The old boy entertaining Pelagius handles that shit better than me." Northstar gave another febrile grin. "Time means nothing here. Tell me what's going on so I can handle your test better."

She gestured to the feasting table. "Take a seat, have some cheese. I promise Pelly hasn't done anything to it."

"Yet," Sheogorath observed. "But do mind the fishstick. I'm doing it and it's in a very delicate state of mind."

Elisif sat down and obeyed, wondering if she was already going crazy. But despite the madness of the situation, the three apparitions _seemed_ sympathetic, and so the Jarl of Solitude told them everything, allowing herself to weep for the first time in months. All of her doubts, her grief, her plans. She told them everything and even Sheogorath was silent by the end of her recitation of woes.

"That's a lot," Northstar observed. "Damn, seems Tamriel has gone to hell with Martin's death."

"It's been two centuries," Elisif told her. "You look nothing like your statue used to."

"You're politely saying I'm fucking ugly," the Madgoddess responded with a smirk. "Don't worry, I'm not offended. Even my clan thought I was worthless…"

Pelagius toyed with his fishsticks, frowning slightly. "You should pike Ulfric's head somewhere."

Sheogorath sighed. "That is so blasé. Turn him into a chicken!"

Northstar snapped her fingers. "There's a thought. Give her Wabbajack."

The Madgoddess produced a staff from thin air, handing it to Elisif. "Go wander about and figure out how to use it. Who knows, maybe you can even help Pelly sort himself out."

Elisif's hands trembled as they tightened around the staff. She was trapped here, so she had no choice to obey.

"You have all the choices in the world," Northstar informed her cheerfully. "Go and have fun, m'girl."

Then she gestured and Elisif vanished from the feasting table.

…

Time was immaterial here, as Northstar had said. Elisif found herself sympathising with poor Pelagius as Sheogorath narrated his life story. Paranoid mother, absent father, frequent betrayals… No wonder he'd gone mad.

_And this is a legacy you represent as Jarl of Solitude and threats you will face as Empress,_ she told herself as she adjusted Pelagius to match his uncertainty in size.

She blanched when transforming the hagraven brought Ulfric about instead. Then she remembered the Wabbajack and used it on him, turning him… into a chicken. That Shouted, stirring her hair with a puff of wind. And squawked indignantly as she picked him up, snapping his neck. _That_ felt rather cathartic.

Bit by bit, step by step, she fought her way through the Madgoddess' realm, restoring Pelagius to a state of stability – if not sanity. Sometimes she came across things that reminded her of her youth in Cyrodiil, facing Thalmor Justicars and Nord barbarians, and always, always Ulfric in some form.

Finally she came to the day that Ulfric murdered Torygg, listening to her beloved's final declaration of love before the Jarl of Windhelm Shouted him apart. She lived through it thrice before noticing that other people were equally anguished, standing on the sidelines; Balgruuf, Idgrod, Ingmund… They were all helpless and grieving.

_It's madness. It's chaos. But from such things new legends, new paths, can grow,_ she realised in the depths of her despair, as she broke down and wailed loud enough for Torygg to hear in Sovngarde. _Madness for a Jarl to kill his King, madness for Alduin to return… and madness for the next Emperor or Empress to be a Nord._

She knew what Lia's plans for Martin were. Her own family ran to women, so it was likely a spare daughter could be found. It would blend old and new dynasties, return the Empire's connection to Skyrim…

_If a whore can become Grand Master of the Blades, then the Jarl of Solitude can become Empress,_ she decided as she swung Wabbajack around to transform Ulfric into a sweet roll. _I will not bow to Ulfric. I won't give him the satisfaction!_

Inchoate light blinded her again, returning her to the dinner table. Pelagius was gone.

"He's gone to… wherever the sane go," Northstar observed, drinking a cup of tea complete with pinkie sticking out. Elisif was too wrung out to appreciate the surrealism of it.

"Poor Pelagius, so boringly sane," Sheogorath complained.

"Plenty more people to drive crazy," Elisif assured him, earning a grin from the Imperial.

"Can we keep her?" he asked Northstar.

"No. She's going to cause chaos in Skyrim over the next couple days." Northstar grinned madly at Elisif. "Don't forget the crown in the Pelagius Wing."

"I… What crown?" The light was gathering around her again.

"You'll see. Oh, use Wabbajack on Ulfric. That will be good for a few laughs."

_It will indeed,_ Elisif thought grimly.

"You take care of yourself, now. And if you ever find yourself in New Sheoth, do look me up. We can share a strawberry torte. Ta ta!"

"I will," she promised before the light engulfed her.

…

Elisif awoke in bed to find an irate Falk looking down at her.

"Are you insane?" he bellowed. "Disappearing like that? You could have been killed-"

For the first time in her life, Elisif spoke back to her kinsman. "Falk… _Shut up_."

The thunderstruck silence made her laugh, merry peals that bordered on hysteria. Erdi the kitchen maid joined her until everyone, excepting Falk, was laughing. When it died down, her Steward looking mightily hurt and offended, Elisif bestowed a gentle smile on him.

"It's alright. If I would rule, I cannot hide behind others. Ulfric will be coming tomorrow-"

"Today. You were out for the whole day," Falk interrupted.

"Well. Either way, I won't bow or break before him." Elisif smiled again. "If he clucks too much, I'll simply turn him into a chicken."

The look on Falk's face made her laugh again as she arose to prepare for the Moot. And she had a crown to find.

…

"More tea?"

"Of course, Sheo."

"Nice lass, that one. Things are certainly mad in Skyrim, aren't they?"

"Tell Me about it. Alduin will eat Us all if this Balgruuf fails."

"Oh well. I guess We'll give him indigestion."

"This is what I love about You, Sheo. Your optimistic view on things."

"I love You too, Northstar. My drunken little thuggish fuck-up of a Blade who got her Emperor killed, you."

"Who else would? Kicking Tsun in the balls was a good way to get Myself tossed out of Sovngarde." The Madgoddess made a derisive noise. "Meat and mead all my days? Sheesh, give Me some tea and cheese and I'm good."

She wrapped an arm around her paramour and snuggled up to him, preparing for the shenanigans of the coming day.


	27. Wolves at the Door

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. :) Linking The Man Who Cried Wolf, the Wolf Queen Awakened and the beginning of Dawnguard together. Faal Aldin Du'ul is almost finished; the sequel will cover the war against Alduin, Dragonborn and Dawnguard.

…

**Wolves at the Door**

Solitude, 27th Evening Star, 4E 201

Farkas sighed. He hated Solitude because of its old cold walls and shadows of death and madness. But the Moot was here and even with the Emperor's death, the fate of Skyrim needed to be decided. Both sides claimed to have the Jagged Crown now, suggesting that the local jewellers had gone and made themselves something from all the dragon teeth Balgruuf left lying around. Kodlak had forseen Balgruuf wearing a crown of them; maybe word had gotten out or they found old books describing it or something.

"I tell you: strange lights and noises have been coming from Wolfskull Cave!" insisted a haggard-looking Imperial to Falk Firebeard, who looked equally weary and worried.

"I'll send someone to look at it," the Steward of Haafingar said tiredly.

"You said that two months ago!" snapped the Imperial, who looked vaguely familiar.

"I'll look into it!" Farkas bellowed. Wolfskull Cave had a nasty reputation, even by Haafinger's standards, and he needed to kill time until the Moot on the morrow.

"Companion! Thank you!" Falk greeted as he hurried up. "I've had more important things on my mind-"

"That's Harbinger," Vilkas informed the redhead flatly. "And leave it to me, brother."

Farkas shook his head. "Alduin's return has brought a lot of nasty things back from the grave. Might need me to handle it, Vilkas."

"I had heard…" Falk's lips pursed. "I had intended to ask the Dawnbringer to look into it, but she is… ill-disposed at present."

The brothers looked at each other. Though chosen by a Daedric Prince, the Dawnbringer was one of Skyrim's greatest champions, especially against the undead. Whether this one wielded the mighty sword Dawnbreaker, wore the Ring of Khajiiti or had her own unique artefact, she would be a useful ally for the Companions. Even if the Vigilants of Stendarr would have a fit.

"She still might be able to help," Farkas eventually said. "Can we see her?"

Falk nodded. "She's in the guest wing… with the Dragonborn."

…

"Harbinger, eh? You are worthy of it."

Farkas clasped forearms with Balgruuf, pleased to see the former Jarl was a bit more muscular than before Alduin's return. "Agent of Kyne too," he told him. "So… yeah. Lots of fun tomorrow."

"You have a warped idea of fun," Balgruuf observed dryly. "Tomorrow will be… interesting."

"Hey Farkas," Lia said, emerging from the bedroom of the guest suite. The Harbinger gave a quick sniff to figure out if they'd finally gotten around to it, but nope, they were still being stubborn. Maybe he should lock them in a room or something.

Then he looked closer at Lia and felt his jaw drop. The Grand Master was thin, too thin, and she moved slowly like she'd been injured. He knew the signs of intense magical healing. "Who did it so I can kill 'em?" he asked her.

"She's dead," the Blade responded wearily. "I killed her myself."

"Nice crown," Vilkas drawled sardonically. "Planning on becoming Queen of something?"

The circlet Vilkas referred to was ruddy gold with a jewel of condensed white-gold light that seared the eye with an afterglow; despite her thinness, Lia looked illuminated from within, her turquoise eyes shining fiercely.

"It's called the Daystar and she is the Dawnbringer," Balgruuf replied curtly.

"No matter what happens, I will be Queen of _nothing_, Vilkas," Lia added. "The Grand Master of the Blades eschews any loyalties beyond the Dragonborn and her brethren."

Vilkas grunted and shrugged. Some people just didn't like each other, Farkas supposed. "There's trouble in Wolfskull Cave," he observed. "Might be the sort up the Dawnbringer's alley."

"Esbern should have picked up that damned beacon," the Blade muttered.

"Wolfskull… That is the place Potema the Wolf Queen would perform her necromancy," Balgruuf said grimly. "You should speak to the priests of Arkay. They can give you a blessing to fight the undead."

"Yeah, no shit, Dragonborn," Farkas pointed out. "Falk just told me to come speak to Lia."

The Blade sighed. "I'm in no condition to fight. I'm sorry, Farkas, but all I can suggest is visit the Hall of the Dead and carry some blessed salt and silver with you."

The Harbinger shrugged. "Not the first time I've handled necromancers. I'm sure me an' Vilkas will be fine."

…

"…I'm fairly certain that surge of energy wasn't a good thing," Vilkas muttered as he used a scrap of necromancer's robe to clean his greatsword.

"Probably not," Farkas agreed. "But we should go tell Falk he was wrong."

"He'll love that."

It was a relatively short walk back to the city for two fit men in their prime. A wolf howled and Farkas howled back, enjoying the feeling of pack. Vilkas looked at him strangely but the Harbinger didn't bother explaining it to his brother. Much as he loved Vilkas, some things were beyond understanding or explanation.

"Balgruuf will likely become High King," Vilkas finally said somewhere near the hill overlooking Katla's Farm.

"Yeah."

"Ulfric is going to have a shit fit."

"Probably."

"Balgruuf will likely kill him."

"Ironic."

"And this doesn't bother you?"

"Why should it? Never pegged you for 'Skyrim belongs to the Nords' type."

"I'm not and you know it. But… shit, Farkas. Kodlak was playing politics at the end and you know it."

"All I know is someone is goin' to go home cryin' tomorrow. Might be Ulfric, might be Elisif. Hell, might even be Balgruuf. It's my job to protect Skyrim, not get involved in the civil war."

"…How can you be so damned calm?"

Farkas gestured to the city uphill from them. "That city survived Tiber Septim, Pelagius an' Potema. Think it'll survive tomorrow unless Alduin comes callin'."

Vilkas shook his head in disbelief while Farkas sighed inwardly. His brother overthought things at times. Ulfric might be a great war-leader but he was still kind of an arse. And an oathbreaker. And he brought Alduin here.

But what happened, unless it affected the Companions, wasn't his concern.

…

Solitude, 28th Evening Star

"…This is not a good place to be."

"Shut up, Deeja. Can't you hear the woman calling?"

"Jaree, this place makes my scales crawl."

"This part of the Blue Palace was locked for a reason-"

A surge of violet energy rushed past the two Argonian rogues, tasting of triumph and death, and the siblings shuddered like someone had walked over their graves.

"That's it, we're leaving."

And this time, Jaree didn't argue with his sister, for the woman had fallen silent.

…

"There you are!"

Falk came running, his face ashen, as the two Companions entered the Blue Palace. Much to his surprise, Lia was up and about in Blades armour, wearing the Daystar circlet, and Balgruuf was in his steel plate with a katana of all things on his belt. Elisif was there with some weird staff in hand.

"…I told you that energy wasn't good," Vilkas said to his brother before turning to Falk. "Yes, that was Potema herself. Some idiot necromancers were raising her and…"

"And now she's haunting the Pelagius Wing," Elisif finished with a sigh. "As if Pelagius' ghost wasn't bad enough-"

"We seriously need to have this place washed with seawater and blessed to a farewell," Lia told the Jarl of Solitude grimly. "That much death… sinks into a place."

"So does madness," Elisif observed quietly. "I'm coming with you."

"You were asleep until two hours ago and Ulfric will be here any hour!" Falk snapped.

"After the day I had, Potema is nothing," Elisif responded serenely. "Besides, if she's troublesome, I'll turn her into a chicken."

"…Oh dear." Lia's voice was rueful. "This will be… interesting."

The thin Blade was practically leaning on a quarterstaff but looked like she wouldn't accept an order to rest. As Dawnbringer, she really couldn't because Meridia would ride her arse until doomsday.

"Don't worry, the Madgoddess is rather nice. Bit… ah… crude, but nice."

"…I don't want to know."

Farkas sighed as Falk looked nervously at Elisif, wondering if she was already crazy. _Looks like every Aedra, Daedra an' his pet puppy's gettin' involved in this…_

"Balgruuf, you stay here-"

"Like hell. I'm coming."

"…If you die, Alduin wins!"

"Heh, if Potema wins, we're all screwed."

"If any of you die, General Tullius is going to have a shit fit." Falk's voice was resigned. "Be careful in there."

They entered the Pelagius Wing, prepared for almost anything.

…

The Solitude Catacombs

"Oooh, explodey!"

"That's real scientific language for you right there, Vilkas."

Farkas snickered. Despite her physical weakness, Lia and Vilkas had been trading barbs since they'd entered the Catacombs where Potema resided; so far, the various undead and odd vampire sent their way was practically nothing to them so far. The best bit was when Elisif turned a Mistwalker vampire into a cute little bunny rabbit… that still tried to drain your blood. Wouldn't carrots be preferable to a rabbit?

They moved in a diamond pattern: Balgruuf, with his Whiterun Shield and Shouts, at point while Farkas and Vilkas were on either side of Elisif, and Lia took rear. Her Daystar circlet, a gift from Meridia, enveloped her in fierce white light that burned and exploded any undead that touched her. Good thing she was wearing armour because the archers would have finished her off otherwise.

The closer they got to Potema's crypt, the more oppressively triumphant the Wolf Queen's presence got. "Yes, come to me, provide me with the power to escape this wretched place!" she crowed.

"…On the upside, if I die here, Alduin will eat her too," Balgruuf observed with morbid optimism.

"You Nords find the strangest things to be optimistic about," Lia muttered, forgetting that she was a Nord. Technically. And part-Orc. But Farkas knew better than to remind her.

"How are you holding up?" Balgruuf asked her.

"I'll collapse day after tomorrow," was her not very reassuring answer.

Few more vampires and a baker's dozen draugr later, they entered Potema's Sanctum. The Wolf Queen arose from her throne, laughing like a villain in a story told by a third-rate bard, and summoned forth a horde of undead that was actually something approaching a challenge.

Still, it was over eventually, though there'd been casualties: Lia had collapsed under the strain, Vilkas picked up a wound that would scar badly… and Balgruuf, who'd been first into the fray, had half his left cheek ripped open by Potema herself. He still had both eyes and a good mage could regenerate enough tissue to cover his teeth… But he'd never be quite as handsome as he was before.

And the Wolf Queen would be laid to… well… Oblivion, he supposed. The ghosts of evil necromancers never rested.

Farkas shuddered. There was something dark in the air, darker than Potema. His animalistic senses could detect it from miles away. Alduin's return had brought… darker things… to Skyrim.

Gods help them all.

…

Pelagius Wing, Blue Palace

"Oooh, old but serviceable."

Martin _loved_ working with Delvin. The man was like an awesome Papa who not only let you get away with bedlam but actively taught you how to be better at it. If the Empire didn't need him so much, he'd happily remain a thief and rob the Thalmor blind. Except Mama would look at him oddly and sigh. She was strange sometimes.

The boy poked around the remnants of a cabinet, finding a couple old gold coins that he pocketed. Odds and ends were allowed to go into a Guildsman's personal stock, but stuff that needed to be melted down went to the Thieves' common pool. Given that food, armour repairs and other stuff came from there, Martin wasn't complaining. Give him enough coins to buy a sweet roll and he was happy.

He was trying not to think about Uncle Irkand killing Papa. The assassin had sat him down and said that Sithis let him kill anyone, but he had to kill for whoever asked him too. Kind of like Nocturnal let people steal things but they had to be sneaky and stuff, he supposed. His Uncle had promised to kill Armaund Motierre too, because the guy had been mean to the Dark Brotherhood and gotten most of them dead. Given that Motierre had stuck him in the treasure wagon to be killed or sold or something, Martin would help pay for Irkand to do the deed.

_At least the Dark Brotherhood are honest 'bout killing,_ he thought bitterly. _Motierre was nice and brought me things. Jerk._

"I love Moots. Excellent time to steal things because everyone's up at the Palace," Delvin said cheerfully as he stashed a silver plate into the bag. "Found anything useful?"

"Just enough coins for a sweet roll," Martin admitted sourly as he dug through the cabinet.

"Don't worry about it. I'll have you do a filching job later." Delvin, for the most part, treated him like an adult. "Kids can get away with that sort of thing."

The boy's hands closed over something knobbly; he pulled it out. Heavy and a funny brownish-ivory-greyish colour, it was a helmet. Or a crown. Or something. Looked like…

"Dragonbone." Delvin's voice was shocked, almost loud in the darkness. "Kid… That might be somethin' we was hired to acquire."

"The thing Cynric and Rune were meant to get?" Martin looked at the crown. It looked like it was made from dragon's teeth.

"The Jagged Crown…" Delvin shook his head in awe.

"I thought Ulfric had it."

"So does Elisif." The Breton thief scratched his unshaven chin thoughtfully. "The Stormcloaks are lousier guards but the Imperials make people complacent. Decisions, decisions…"

"We should give it to the Dragonborn!" Martin announced. "Ulfric brought Alduin back."

"Bit more complicated than that, kid." Delvin grinned. "I say we throw it into the middle of the Moot and watch the resulting brawl."

_"That works,"_ observed a woman's voice, a powerful contralto that reminded Martin of… someone. Big and tough and able to rip a dremora's head off with her bare hands.

"Okay!"

And this was why Martin would need to wait a decade or two before being ready to rule Tamriel…

…

Solitude Lighthouse

"_The Bear of Windhelm_. Ulfric's longship."

"Originally named."

"It belonged to his grandfather."

"Still, I thought you Nords appreciated originality."

"This from the man whose family gives all their daughters the same name."

"…We give them different cognomens!"

"So?"

Astrid climbed down from the lighthouse, accepting Irkand's hand. They'd seen Brynjolf and Karliah around; knowing Vex and Delvin, they were robbing Solitude blind. Irkand wished them the best of luck; he liked to see friends get ahead in the world.

Motierre was ensconced in the Emperor's Tower, thinking he was safe. Irkand was going to present his head to the new High King as a gift. It would be tacky to attend the Moot and not bring one, after all.

"Gold or silver?" he asked Astrid.

"…What?" the Speaker asked, confusedly.

"If I were giving you a head on a platter, what metal would you prefer?"

Astrid smiled sadly at him. "You say the sweetest things."

"You didn't answer my question."

The Speaker rolled her eyes. "Gold if it's a fair complexion, silver if it's dark."

"…I… What?"

"Irkand, you have absolutely no sense of style." Astrid shook her head sadly. "Gold and dark skin or fair skin and silver are too obvious. Like, amateur obvious. Didn't you ever pay attention to how your niece dressed at Court?"

"My niece wore turquoise silk and gold at Court. It was the Emperor's choice."

"Ugh, obvious again. I swear, Tamriel's sense of style improved when you killed him." Astrid sighed. "I'm sure your niece will understand. We'll need to talk anyway."

…Somehow, that news was more terrifying than facing off against all the Thalmor death squads he'd fought over the past thirty years… at once. "Gold, got it. Do you think the Dragonborn will also appreciate it?"

"He's male. He won't."

Irkand shook his head bemusedly as they headed towards Solitude for the fun day ahead. He would never understand women.


	28. Stormfront

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm being vague with exact time as the past few chapters have been happening simultaneously. After this one, they will snap back into the same timeline. There will be a sequel. Too many plot bunnies! (And Dawnguard and Dragonborn…)

…

**Stormfront**

The Winking Skeever, 28th Evening Star 4E 201

They'd forced him to stay in the inn like a commoner.

Ulfric Stormcloak had come here, the seat of his enemy, in good faith and Elisif's grudge against him pervaded her entire city. He should have known that Torygg's woman would indulge in petty spite when the only reason her husband went to Sovngarde was because of Ulfric's challenge. No doubt Kodlak's heartbreaking death meant that she felt free to show her contempt for Skyrim's ways.

But he should have at least been treated with the respect due his rank. Putting him in the inn was a violation of the laws of hospitality.

"Jarl Ulfric?"

The quiet, measured voice was vaguely familiar, even if coming from a bulky Nord clad in Legion officer's armour who'd come up unnoticed as Ulfric brooded. He was plain-faced and hard-eyed for all his soft words; Ulfric regretted this one had been lured in by Imperial lies.

"Yes?" the Jarl asked curtly.

"The Moot has been postponed for a day."

Ulfric lounged back in his seat like it was the Throne of Ysgramor, eyeing the Legionnaire. "And why might that be?"

"Because, according to the Priests of Arkay, Potema the Wolf Queen was just purged from the Pelagius Wing by the Dragonborn, the Dawnbringer and the Harbinger," the quiet-voiced soldier promptly answered, his tone so serious Ulfric could almost taste the truth in his words.

"Balgruuf's exorcising ghosts now, is he?" Galmar asked sardonically.

The Legionnaire regarded him mildly. "He insisted on coming – much to the Grand Master's frustration."

"What's this about the Grand Master?" asked a Dunmer clad in segmented armour Ulfric hadn't seen in nearly thirty years. Red-haired and blood-eyed, he looked passingly familiar as well; half the tavern seemed full of people Ulfric felt he should know but didn't.

"Ah, First Blade Athis?" The Legionnaire ignored protocol by turning from Ulfric to face the dark elf. "Lady Lia wants you up at the Blue Palace. She's got… quite the bit of news to share with you."

The Dunmer smirked wryly. "We saw her hanging mid-air from Sky Haven. And she sent a mage-message."

Only Greybeard discipline kept Ulfric's jaw from dropping. The Grand Master of the Blades was also Dawnbringer? He didn't know if it was a conflict of interests but it might very well come close.

The soldier sighed. "Dammit, that woman thinks of everything. Must be from her days as the Emperor's Consort."

This time Ulfric's jaw did drop and so did those of Ralof, now Stormblade, and Galmar. The scar-faced woman he'd practically interrogated in Winterhold, the one who had saved the town from the Thalmor, was the Emperor's whore?

Ralof, his left hand to Galmar as right, finally found his voice. "Telling tales as you did when we were boys, Hadvar?"

Athis looked at him mildly. "Be quiet and let the adults talk."

The Stormblade rose to his feet, hand going for his axe, but Galmar grabbed his forearm and pulled him back down. "We don't attack Blades, even when they're Dunmer and apparently commanded by a whore."

Hadvar crossed his beefy arms. "Hello, Ralof. I'd stay and chat, but I have work to do for tomorrow."

_When I am High King,_ Ulfric began to think as he had thousands of times before, but seeing the Legion openly collude with the Blades, who were supposed to be neutral politically and banned officially, doubt began to creep in. Was Balgruuf intending to be the next High King, not the next Tiber Septim?

"It is a pity to see a childhood friend of Ralof's become an Imperial milkdrinker," Ulfric observed, hoping to rattle the stoic soldier with shame.

"It's a pity to see a hero of the Great War who murdered his High King," Hadvar retorted, his soft voice sharpening slightly. "Tell me – have you found the Nerevarine's warband yet?"

"When I am recognised as High King, I will bring the Dunmer to heel," Ulfric vowed softly.

Athis the Blade raised an eyebrow. "Planning to invade Solstheim? Good luck with that, Ulfric."

His lack of respect – and the cryptic words – left Ulfric without speech for a few moments, long enough for the Blade to leave. Hadvar offered a curt nod, the barest show of respect for his rank, and exited the tavern shortly after.

"They're planning something," Ralof said, stating the obvious. Ulfric appreciated the man's loyalty and drive, intending to reward him with a Jarl's title, but the Stormblade was not a smart man.

_Not like Balgruuf, who learned politics at the hands of the bards,_ he thought grimly. What was the Dragonborn – he couldn't believe Elisif had any brains or ambitions of her own – up to? Was Lia his subordinate… or his puppetmaster?

_And where are the fucking Thalmor?_ Usually, the goldskins were abundant in Solitude, but the only Altmer he'd seen today were the Dean of the Bards' College and that snooty seamstress. What were they planning?

There was something very wrong here and Ulfric feared for Skyrim's fate on the morrow.

…

The Thalmor Embassy

"You promised me an absent heir, a dead Emperor and Skyrim delivered to me on a silver platter. Instead I am seeing a Dragonborn on the verge of becoming High King, a resurgent Blades order, and a green-eyed Imperial brat running around robbing people blind!"

Ondolemar nibbled on a sugary pastry as Elenwen, magnificent in black and gold fury, gave Motierre the tirade of his life. The Breton looked ready to piss himself in fear, a habit he was regrettably prone to, and trying to babble apologies. Disgustedly, the Ambassador cut him off with a chop of a manicured hand, dismissing him like a good little mortal that he was. Looking relieved, Motierre slunk out, leaving the two senior Thalmor in Skyrim alone in Elenwen's solar.

"If he were competent enough to achieve what we asked for, he would have refused our aid," Ondolemar pointed out before the Ambassador could speak.

"…Correct. Though I'd like to ask the head of Skyrim's Justicars how such an organised gathering of Blades managed to happen under his nose?" Elenwen countered with a dangerous narrowing of her golden eyes.

"Because you had me too busy persecuting peasants and stirring up the Stormcloaks," Ondolemar retorted acidly. "None of us perceived Too-Tall as a threat, not after what she went through."

"No one expected the Northstar to delay our interests by fifty years, for Irkand to control the Dark Brotherhood or for the Emperor to take an Aurelii Consort!" Elenwen pointed out flatly. "It is your _job_ as a Justicar to expect the unexpected and deal with potential threats accordingly!"

"And it was yours as Ambassador to keep the pot boiling in Skyrim," Ondolemar answered, licking flaky sugar from his elegant fingers. "Ulfric was a nice touch, I'll grant you, but your attitude has won you no friends amongst the Jarls."

"I'm not here to win friends. I'm here to destroy the backbone of this wretched place!"

Ondolemar sighed. It was bad enough he was exiled to this snowy hellhole, worse even than Bruma, but to be stuck with a woman who was an efficient torturer but a shocking diplomat… The Aedra hated him. "We could have had four or five Siddgeirs if you'd used the carrot instead of the stick. Now we only have one because once Balgruuf becomes High King, even the majority of the Stormcloak Jarls will fall behind him. And let me assure you, he hasn't forgotten what happened to Balgruuf the Lesser or Istgeir."

"It was your job to destroy the Aurelii!" Elenwen countered mercilessly. "Root and branch, Justicar! But instead like fucking poison ivy they've regrown and gotten dangerous again."

Ondolemar examined his nails minutely to annoy Elenwen. It was easy enough to do and he needed _some_ pleasure in this Aedra-cursed place. "I do recall _you_ insisting on purging Cloud Ruler personally, Elenwen."

Elenwen actually hissed in fury. It really was delightful to see the Ambassador become livid. He really should indulge himself more often. "How can we ruin tomorrow?" she demanded, changing the subject.

"Nothing," Ondolemar countered honestly. "Near as I can tell, we will have a Dragonborn, at least one agent of the Daedra, the bearer of Wabbajack and a minimum of two werewolves tomorrow. After the mess in Riften, we don't have enough elite agents to deal with that."

Elenwen swore again and stormed off, probably to chew Motierre out some more. Rewarded as a traitor deserved, Ondolemar supposed.

"You have a warped sense of humour," observed a familiar woman's voice from mid-air. "She's teetering on the edge of madness."

"Shouldn't you be haunting Pelagius' Wing?" Ondolemar asked dryly. "Or being in Sovngarde or something."

"Aww hell no," the Madgoddess replied cheerfully. "Too many shenanigans going on at the moment. And Elisif is so cute. Like a puppy that's trying to gnaw on your testicles."

Ondolemar didn't find that cute. "You were always a little insane," he told her.

"That is the loveliest thing someone has ever said to Me. Well, except for the time Martin told me I looked ravishing in red after I ripped four Dremora Lords apart," the Northstar answered. "Speaking of Martin, seen him about? I lost contact with him about ten or so years ago."

"…They tore down his statue," Ondolemar told her regretfully. He didn't know the two ascended heroes had communicated past Martin's… demise.

"…Sons of bitches." Northstar's voice was tight with fury. "If I wasn't bound by a promise I made Martin-!"

"We have a Dragonborn again. And your descendant is driving Elenwen mad," the Altmer assured her.

"Thank Me for small blessings," the Daedric Prince of Madness responded. "Oh, Sheo says hi and wants Me to remind you that you promised you'd streak naked through a chapel on a Sundas."

Ondolemar buried his face in his hands. Trust a drunken jest made on the day of his ascension to the katana to be remembered. "I'm a little occupied with driving Elenwen insane," he reminded her.

"He says keep that up and He'll let it slide."

"You're too kind."

"See you around, Dolly. Ta-ta!"

"Goodbye…"

A surprised hiss caught his attention; a wide-eyed Khajiit servant regarded him warily, then ducked her head submissively when he glared at her before scurrying out.

"Great, now everyone will think _I'm_ insane," he muttered.

Northstar's boisterous laughter filled the room, proving he was right.

…

Castle Dour

"Good work blabbing our secrets to Ulfric, Legate."

Tullius longed for his razor and a pair of shears, but he had to settle for trimming his beard and the too-long fringe of his hair due to the mourning period. Instead he polished his armour to a gleam, sharpened his trusty gladius to cut the wind, and reminded himself that traitors were allowed to wander the streets of Solitude during a Moot because technically Ulfric hadn't broken any laws when murdering Torygg. Even if Elisif was talking about turning him into a sweet roll…

_My Empress to be has the fucking Wabbajack. All I need._ Tullius liked his world safe and predictable; since coming to Skyrim, it hadn't been either.

Hadvar shrugged those disgustingly broad shoulders beneath armour that made them even broader. Tullius could have propped him against the barn wall back home and kept the whole building standing. "Ulfric is unsettled, which is what Jarl Elisif wanted."

"Does he have the Jagged Crown?" Rikke asked intently. "I know we've got it, but…"

"He's got a dragon-tooth crown, no doubt," Hadvar agreed. "But the legends say that the real Crown will choose the High King if it fits on his head."

"Good thing we've got Balgruuf's head size," Tullius muttered.

"Don't let Ulfric catch you saying that," Rikke murmured chidingly.

The door slammed shut; the trio looked towards the entrance to Castle Dour and Tullius swore. "Dammit! Cat's out of the bag!"

Then he looked around and realised the case of garum sauce sent from Cyrodiil as a gift by Titus was missing. "Where the fuck is my fish sauce?"

As if his day couldn't get worse…

…

Proudspire Manor

"I'm a little sceptical about this fish sauce, lad."

"It's called garum and it's sort of like lutefiske," Martin responded. He liked Brynjolf, but honestly, the man needed a bit of polish. Lucky for him and Delvin, Martin and Vex were available to help them out.

"You mean we could save the liquid from pickling the fish and sell it to the Imperials?" Brynjolf asked dubiously.

"Probably. Wouldn't be perfect garum, but around here, no one would know the difference." Martin set aside a bottle of garum for everyone in the Guild, including Karliah, and saved one for his Mama too. "I think General Tullius thinks I was a Stormcloak listening in on his plans for the Moot."

"Good work, lad," Brynjolf said approvingly. "Any word on the street we should know about?"

"The Vigilants of Stendarr have been killed." Karliah's soft, sweet voice, so much like the bird Nocturnal's agents were named after, echoed from the rafters as she jumped down to land lightly. "The shadows have become full of dangers."

"Demons, lass?" Brynjolf asked, eyes narrowed.

"Worse. Vampires." Karliah's dusk-violet eyes were grim above her mask. "Molag Bal is stirring."

The Thieves' Guild didn't have many scruples, being the favoured servants of a Daedric Prince, but they drew the line at beings like Mehrunes Dagon or Molag Bal. Brynjolf, who'd grown up the son of a Dibellan priestess before the Temple kicked him out at the age of seventeen, raised an eyebrow. "Take it to the Dawnbringer," he advised.

"I can't. The Daystar banishes shadows – and even our armour." The Dunmer's lovely voice grew wry. "It's no reflection of Meridia's attitude towards Nocturnal – they're… cordial – it's just that no shadows can exist in the presence of the Sun Queen's light."

All Martin got was 'banishes armour'. "It'd be pretty funny if my Mama saw you naked," he grinned.

"Yeah… Funny…" Delvin had a funny, faraway look in his eyes and a funny bulge in his breeches. Vex smacked him upside the head, though Martin didn't get what he'd done wrong. Knowing Vex, she probably smacked him because she liked smacking him.

Karliah sighed. "Just watch your back in the shadows," she advised. "The vampires are getting bolder."

"Will do, lass. You staying for tomorrow's shenanigans?" Brynjolf asked.

"Hardly. The Madgod's influence is all over the Blue Palace," Karliah responded ruefully. "I'd rather avoid trouble, if I may."

"But we're going to toss the Jagged Crown into the middle of the Moot and see what happens," Delvin protested.

Karliah actually facepalmed. Martin _loved_ seeing people do that. "Why are you a Nightingale again?" she asked the Breton Guild Master.

"Slow week in Riften?" Martin suggested. That was Tonilia's standard response to any questions about her life choices.

"I'm leaving now," the senior Nightingale announced as she blurred into the shadows once more. "Nocturnal be with you."

"Making you Emperor would be a bloody waste," Delvin told the boy with a grin. "Be a thief. Less paperwork."

That was a good argument. Mama would be annoyed though… and Papa would sigh. It crashed into Martin's consciousness that yes, his father was dead, and yes, if the Thalmor found him, they'd probably kill him now to make sure.

He began to cry and it was Vex, of all people, who hugged him. "We'll make the goldskins pay," she murmured. "I promise."

Somehow, he believed her.

…

The temperature dropped overnight as the northeastern wind known as Ysmir's Breath blew into town. Trees grew so cold that they shattered; Solitude was blanketed in three-foot snow.

And on the edge of that wind rode a black dragon, calling again for his fated foe to face him.


	29. Beware, Beware the Dragonborn Comes

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Altering an encounter with Alduin because… well… what's not awesome about the World-Eater hopping roof to roof, trying to flame the Dragonborn, in Solitude? And thanks again to Thu'um . org for making my life so easy when it came to coming up with dragon names.

…

**Beware, Beware the Dragonborn Comes**

Solitude, 30th Evening Star 4E 201 (Before Dawn)

Lia awoke to the kind of cold she hadn't felt since getting dunked into the Sea of Ghosts. She slowly eased out from under her furs, glad she'd thought to pack the Skaal-style clothing given to her so long ago and cursing the physical traumas of the past two weeks that left her thin and weak like a sun-brittle bone. At least the Blue Palace was enchanted as the former abode of the Septim Emperors. But she felt vulnerable and useless when wrapped in furs, not silks, for what would be the equivalent of a social battle.

At least with her hood up and cap on, she could conceal most of her enchanted jewellery, hoarded against such a day as today.

"Ysmir's Breath!" she heard Balgruuf curse in the other room. Rumours were flying that the Dragonborn had been subverted by or taken the Grand Master to bed, but despite the tension between them, Lia was in no rush. By her oaths as a Blade, Balgruuf could command her to sleep with him, as Titus had; it would be a more physically pleasant version of her life as a Consort. He seemed content to let her find her own way to him, though, giving her the choice of whether to follow through or not.

That choice, his kindness, meant more to her than she could ever say. It gave her the strength to drag herself up Delphine's dai-katana and drive a dagger into the side of her neck, to walk through tombs infested with draugr to keep him safe, to throw herself in front of him if necessary so that he would live.

Reluctantly, she left the guest room after adding a thick wrap of snow-bear fur and smearing the mushroom paste down her face to hide the scar. Erdi, clad in a fox-fur cloak and thick goat's wool clothing, was stoking the fire, having laid out a light breakfast of bread, cheese and wizened but still edible berries.

"Dawnbringer!" the servant greeted with a smile too cheerful for what had to be godsforsaken cold, even by Skyrim's standards. "How are you finding the day?"

"Too bloody cold!" Lia complained.

"Ysmir's Breath," Balgruuf repeated, emerging from his room. Lia's throat went dry on seeing him not in the heavy armour she was used to but the sleeveless fur-trimmed brocade tunic, comfortable breeches and fur-lined boots he'd likely worn as Jarl; the interlace embroidery evoked the gold of Whiterun's trade and rich plains while the heavy fur with its fox-tail trim hinted at warmth and… the essence of Skyrim nobility, she supposed. His bare arms were those of a warrior, sinewy and strong, and his scarred face with its beaky nose, piercing ice-blue eyes and fine golden beard was confident beneath his gold and ruby circlet.

_He's… not comfortable in armour,_ she realised in a flash. She'd never seen him in the robes of a Jarl, cloaked in the aura of rulership; it was this moment that she recalled Titus, but this man was still virile and unbowed. Had the Emperor been like that during the Great War?

_This is who he is._ Seeing him, secure in his position, made her realise that he was absolutely the best choice to face Alduin. _I understand now. He loves his Hold, his country, his people. _This_ is what Ulfric wishes he had. Or maybe he only has this love for the Nords. Balgruuf… Giving the Hold to his brother must have wounded him deeper than I thought. I've never seen him whole. As High King, he'll fight Alduin until his last breath, and Talos will stand beside him._

"It is the coldest wind from the north, the Atmoran wind that brought Ysgramor to Skyrim," Balgruuf murmured n explanation. "It is fitting that it blows today."

"Maybe when I'm warmer I'll appreciate the sentiment," she managed to say, voice far more throaty than it ought to be.

Balgruuf gently stepped closer to her, lowering her hood and removing the cap. "You need to wear the Daystar," he told her. "Let them see you as a champion of summer and light, not an Imperial Consort."

"Dovahkiin…"

"_Junseahrol,"_ he corrected with a flash of teeth. "The King of the Hill. It is who I am."

"And you are truly as you are now."

"_Britgeini."_ Balgruuf rumbled the word, then shook his head. "No, that is not a good name for you. You are beautiful, and maybe one day you will be mine, but a proper name should have three words to make a Shout."

"I'm not exactly Dragonborn," she reminded him.

"No, but I will need to give you, Irileth and Farkas Dovahzul names to make certain Tayfunvahzah and Paarthunax remember you are my equals." The Dragonborn hummed thoughtfully, eyes edged with gold. "Irileth is easy: _Iiahfiljud, _the Moon Star Queen. Farkas is _Kaanigrohiikkendov_, Kyne's Wolf Warrior."

"Hate to say that in a hurry," she quipped, though she had to agree the names were perfect.

Another flash of teeth as he rumbled in amusement. That heat he exuded had to be a side effect of being the Dragonborn; hadn't ancient chronicles spoken of Tiber Septim and his descendants burning with inner fires? "You know… Once Bruma was a Nord town. It was the southernmost settlement of the Nords. But once Talos went south, he fixed the border at the Jerall Mountains instead of just past them. It was easier to defend and divide the provinces, yeah?"

"Huh, the things you learn." In the Empire, Bruma had come into existence during Tiber Septim's reign. Cloud Ruler was older, but that was because the Akaviri had arrived during the rule of Reman Cyrodiil.

"We Nords have never forgotten," he breathed, coming closer to her, eyes pure gold and dragon-slit now. "We have four winds. Ysmir's Breath is the first wind, the Wind that brought us home. The east wind is the second one, the Ash Fall from Morrowind, a harbinger of war and change. The third wind is Kyne's Breath, the Green Wind, the breath of life itself. And the final wind is the Bruma Wind, the bringer of warmth and summer."

Balgruuf's lips brushed hers as she tilted her head back, enough to leave a touch of warmth in their wake, and then moved to her ear. _"Sedinkoorven,"_ he breathed. "South Summer Wind."

Lia reached for him as he stepped away, fingers tangling in the fox-tails that hung from his right shoulder. They crashed together, mouths meeting hungrily, the kiss too brief despite sucking the air from her lungs. She'd been cold before but now she fair blazed with heat.

When they separated, those golden eyes were blazing. _"Sedinkoorven,"_ he repeated. "It is your name, if you wish it."

"I do," she husked.

"Good. Good…" He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Let us be done with this farce. Let Skyrim see the Dragonborn this day."

Lia nodded in agreement as she went for the Daystar. Today should be… interesting.

…

The Blue Palace (Morning)

The last time Ulfric had darkened these halls was the Moot that saw the death of Torygg. Now openly wearing a circlet forged from grey-brown dragonbone with a single dragon's tooth point, he marched through the Palace like he owned it. Despite the foregone assumption that Balgruuf would take the High King's throne, the Moot _never_ went to plan, and he might very well wind up sitting in Torygg's seat today.

Farkas was nearly bowled over by Ulfric's charisma. Clad in a mail coat lined with fur, the Jarl of Windhelm was the epitome of the Nord warrior-Jarl; most of the people meeting here had never seen Balgruuf in his plate armour, only in the comfortably ornate robes he preferred as Jarl, and would recall the Steward Jarl who always took the middle ground. The Harbinger hoped that Balgruuf didn't Shout anyone to death. That would be kind of awkward.

But Kyne's warrior stood firmly in the Jarl's way, forcing him to break that long stride. "Companion," Ulfric greeted.

_"Harbinger,"_ Aela corrected. Of the Circle, she'd been the most understanding of his connection to the Mother of Men and had even worked to help him hone the abilities that came with it.

Ulfric raised an eyebrow, looking the bulky Farkas up and down. "I am… surprised," he admitted. "When I have dealt with you, I never expected you to be a leader."

"Companions haven't been led since Ysgramor," Farkas reminded him. "I'm big enough to keep my Shield-Sibs in line when they act without honour."

"And clear-eyed enough to find the path," Skjor added.

"And wise enough to know what honour entails," Vilkas said proudly. His brother didn't understand, but he'd support him all the way.

"Is that so?" Ulfric asked, loud enough for his rich voice to carry through the halls of the Blue Palace. "Honourable enough to set up their own candidate for the High King's throne?"

_Ah, what the hell. Might as well tell him. _"Kodlak saw Balgruuf wearin' a crown of dragonbone an' teeth," the former werewolf informed the Jarl of Windhelm. "Make of that what you will."

"I only have your word on it," Ulfric retorted flatly. "And I thought Kodlak Whitemane a man of honour."

"Vilkas?"

"Yeah?"

"Hold my axe." Farkas threw Wuuthrad to him , the leaner twin catching it neatly, before rolling his other arm under the shoulder to catch Ulfric in his mailed gut with a meaty fist. Propelled by the momentum of a man in better fighting condition than he'd ever be (and augmented by the strength of a bear), the Jarl of Windhelm was driven clear off his feet and nearly to the roof, crashing to the ground with a crunch that made his Stormcloak supporters wince in sympathy. If he hadn't just insulted Kodlak, Farkas would feel sorry for him too.

"You chose to believe what you wanted. Insult Kodlak's memory again an' we'll see how well you Shout without a tongue."

Farkas caught Wuuthrad as Vilkas tossed it back at him, stepping over the groaning Ulfric to enter the throne room of the Blue Palace.

General Tullius, who looked like a midget next to Elisif, grinned at Farkas. "You and I are going to get on just fine," he said.

"You are a worthy replacement for Kodlak," Elisif agreed, dimpling at him.

"Thanks," the Harbinger said graciously. "He might very well walk away from this Moot. But it's about time people remembered that the Companions are the guardians of Skyrim – not just her people, but her soul an' honour too."

Even the Stormcloak Jarls gathered in the Throne Room didn't complain about Farkas' actions; insulting the Harbinger's honour was like pissing on a statue of Talos. Not done unless you were an honourless dog.

Behind him Ulfric was helped to his feet by Galmar and Ralof, groaning in pain. Farkas smiled inwardly; the Jarl would be unable to Shout for the rest of the day unless someone healed him. Made things easier for everyone else.

The whiff of damp and leather made him look up to the rafters; a kid's face, brown and smirking, met his. He sorta looked like Lia, if Lia smirked like a little shit in need of an arse-kicking and stuck his tongue out at him. Farkas returned the favour; little Riften bastard was probably going to steal shit. Oh well, thieves had to make a living too and in Solitude, they could afford to miss a few things.

"Very mature," Tullius muttered to Elisif.

"It's the Madgoddess' influence. People tend to be more… ah… whimsical here."

Tullius sighed heavily. Even with longish grey hair and a neat beard (Imperial mourning for the Emperor, Ria had explained), he looked every inch the uptight Colovian. Elisif would work on that, he supposed.

_Assuming she doesn't kill him,_ Farkas thought ruefully. He should send the General a bottle of Stallion's Potion as a wedding gift. And some stamina draughts.

The Jarls and other important people (and those who thought they were important) fell into place fairly quickly. Kodlak went to at least one Moot a year, so Farkas was familiar with how they went.

Elisif rose to her feet, bearing the chalice of Queen Freydis. "Be welcome to this Moot of the Kings of the Snow," she announced formally. "Drink this mead and know you are bound to honour the peace of the hall."

The pointed look she gave the gasping Ulfric was doubtful. But she still offered the mead to him and he drank.

Hrongar, dressed in his preferred scale armour, was next; then Ingmund, who looked exhausted, and Laila, who looked bored. In Elisif's second round with the Chalice, she approached Idgrod, then Korir, then Siddgeir and finally Brina, the new Jarl of Dawnstar; when they'd drank, she swallowed the dregs and returned to her throne.

"We are gathered here to decide the next High King. By the prophecy Kodlak, Harbinger of the Companions, we-"

_"Meyz tir ahrk luft zey, Junseahrol!"_

The voice was ancient, dark, sepulchural as the very building shook to its foundations. Farkas knew it was a dragon, but judging by the sick expressions of Tullius and Ulfric, it could be only one: Alduin.

Balgruuf, clad in fine robes with only Dragonbane, breathed a soft curse. "Heal Ulfric," he commanded Lia, who wore her thick Skaal furs. "I will need his Voice."

"We've practiced for this!" Farkas bellowed as Lia darted for Ulfric, golden light swirling around the winded Jarl's body. "Companions, get outside!"

The Circle obeyed, looking a bit too eager for people facing dragons. None of his people had faced an ordinary dragon, let alone the World-Eater himself.

_Kyne protect me,_ Farkas thought as he ran outside, prepared to face the end of days.

…

"_FUS RO DAH!"_

Two Voices joined as one to hammer Alduin with force, but the black dragon merely laughed mockingly and crow-hopped to another roof. He was impervious to arrows and always stayed out of range of Balgruuf's Dragonbane. It looked grim, but a soldier of the Legion kept on fighting until the last breath rattled in his throat.

Tullius commanded the archers to continue firing, regretting the lack of catapaults. He had to give Ulfric this; the Jarl of Windhelm fought as hard as any other man and said nothing about working with Imperials against a greater threat.

Lightning danced over Alduin's wings courtesy of Aurelia but the dragon simply laughed it off. He was even immune to Elisif's Wabbajack.

"Fight me. It will make my victory sweeter," taunted the monster from his perch.

"I hope I choke you when you eat the world, you black bastard!" Tullius bellowed defiantly.

He felt Alduin's eyes settle on him in a silent promise he'd be going first down the gullet when Balgruuf fell.

Solitude, for all its stone and slate, was slowly being reduced to rubble while corpses of guards and civilians lined the streets. It was wrong to see this… Every time he saw carnage like this, Tullius only grew more determined to protect the world.

Tullius didn't even know if Elisif was alive or dead. He prayed for her as fervently as he'd once prayed for the Imperial City. They had an Empire to save and he couldn't do it alone.

"Dammit, Balgruuf, do the soul-suckin' thing!" bellowed Farkas the Harbinger. Tullius liked the man and was glad he still fought.

_"Alduin, himdah ahrk luft zey!"_ Balgruuf Shouted.

Alduin launched from the top of Castle Dour and unleashed a blast of fire that cooked several guards and some random mercenary. Tullius wondered where Rikke was… Or if she had already fallen.

"Bow to me, Junseahrol, and I will let you live," Alduin offered. "You have the weapon of my ancient foes but are not their equal!"

"Athis, shield Balgruuf. Our lives for his!" Lia's despairing command, issued in Dunmeris, brought a red-haired Dunmer and the ex-consort together, the former wreathed in flame and the latter calling sad little sparks of electricity to her hands. "Balgruuf, _go._ Go speak to the Greybeards, go-"

_"NIID!"_ Shouted the Dragonborn. It was defiant, despairing… and absolutely insane.

_"NIID, ALDUIN!" _repeated another draconic voice.

The black dragon took to the air again, long neck snaking around to find the source. "Paarthunax."

_"Geh,"_ acknowledged the ancient white dragon that descended from the icy skies above. _"Kun au anahlrii hin siifur raaz!"_

"By the Nine," breathed Ulfric. "Paarthunax. Oh Talos, he will die."

"What are they saying?" Tullius demanded of the Jarl, who apparently knew who the old white dragon was.

"Take on someone your own size," the rebel translated grimly. "We need to flee. _Now._"

The Stormcloak Ralof pulled his horn from his belt and sounded the Imperial retreat. Everyone, rebel and loyalist, civilian and soldier, Jarl and foreigner fell back. But for Balgruuf, who stood transfixed with horror as Paarthunax launched himself at the bigger, meaner, tougher dragon.

For one wild crazy moment Tullius thought Paarthunax would win when his fangs closed around one of Alduin's wings and ripped them to shreds. But the black dragon threw back his head and screamed, _"STRUN BAH QO!"_

"Get into cover!" Tullius yelled as the skies turned into Oblivion come to Nirn.

He almost reached the Winking Skeever when something crashed down, driving him into darkness with a starburst of pain. His last thought was of fair Elisif, left lonely and weeping…


	30. A Year Born in Blood

Note: Well, thanks for sticking by me as I went through NaNoWriMo and its aftermath. This is the final chapter of The Jagged Crown. The battle against Alduin will continue in the next story. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**A Year Born in Blood**

Solitude, 1st Morning Star 4E 202 (Before Dawn)

Astrid vomited and Cicero whimpered.

Even Irkand, used to scenes of wide-scale carnage from the Great War, the Siege of Bruma and Cloud Ruler, and the mass executions of Talos worshippers, was perturbed by the sight which lay just beyond the shattered gates of Solitude. From here he could see the bulk of an ancient white dragon blocking egress into the city proper, one rheumy citrine eye blinking slowly as ichor dripped from broken, bloody limbs. Then almost surreally, he watched four Thieves – two men, a woman and a boy who was blindfolded – climb over the dying creature with sacks full of loot.

"Why can't I see?" Martin demanded plaintively as they left Solitude.

"Trust me, lad. You don't want to see that." Brynjolf's voice was hoarse.

"Mama?"

"I don't know."

Irkand stepped up to block the road down to Katla's Farm, which had been reduced to blackened ruins and corpses. "Robbing the dead?" he asked mildly.

Of them, it was the Nightingales Brynjolf and Delvin who met his eyes; Vex had an iron grip on Martin's wrist. "We'd been doing a bedlam job and keeping an eye on the Moot when Alduin came," Delvin responded flatly. "There's nothing we can do for Solitude when worse is on the horizon."

"If the lad wasn't with us, we'd be staying," Brynjolf said placatingly.

"One of you can stay. Above all other things, we must make sure the Dragonborn is alive." It was strange how easy it was to fall into the cold tranquillity that had kept him alive in the wake of Cloud Ruler. He didn't dare think about his niece being one of those charred corpses, nor Tullius, last hope of the Empire… So long as the Dragonborn survived, the world could continue. Empires came and went.

Delvin grunted. "I'll do it, Bryn. Karliah needs to know what's going on and you're better at talking than me."

The redhead nodded, looking relieved. "You're used to this, so…"

The Breton glared at his fellow Nightingale. "No one is used to this unless you're a fucking Thalmor, Bryn. But this could happen to Riften. Keep an eye out for vampires. They'll be on this like flies on a corpse."

_An apt analogy,_ Irkand observed silently. So much death and destruction always brought the bloodsuckers out…

"Shadows protect you, lad." Brynjolf nodded curtly to Delvin and the Dark Brotherhood before joining Vex and Martin.

"Uncle Irkand?" the boy called out. "Please find Mama."

"I will," the assassin promised. It would be an easy enough vow to keep.

He watched the Thieves leave, hearing Delvin murmur soothing nonsense to Astrid. The Listener was aware of their history; he just hoped that the Nightingale would respect boundaries. Delvin was a useful ally and he'd hate to injure or kill the man Martin idolised as another uncle.

The assassin turned towards the shattered gates and took a deep breath. "Our priority is Balgruuf. If he's dead, we're all fucked. Second is Tullius. Third is…"

"Farkas," Astrid interrupted. "The Harbinger's a big, calm bastard who will be able to help restore order."

Irkand nodded. "You still know the local leaders better than I, love. I'll trust your judgment."

The blonde woman looked oddly at him. "What about your niece?"

Irkand's leather-clad fists clenched slowly. "I love my niece. But I cannot allow sentiment to sway pragmatism. She is… not the priority Balgruuf and Tullius are."

His Speaker nodded understandingly before taking a shaky breath. "Alright. That dragon is still alive; let's see what he knows. We know what Balgruuf looks like; Tullius is a short, clean-shaven Colovian-"

"Bearded and long-haired now. Mourning, remember?" Irkand corrected.

"…Thanks." Astrid pinched her nose. "Farkas is a big, dark-haired Nord who carries a battleaxe with a screaming elf etched into it."

"A Harbinger would sooner die than lose Wuuthrad," Delvin agreed. "Split up?"

"Astrid, go with Delvin. I handle Cicero better." Irkand's mild gaze, directed the Thief's way, warned him to behave. As with any canny creature, the Breton understood and nodded acquiescence. Irkand did like it when people understood him without extensive explanations.

"Let's get this over with." Astrid's honeyed voice was strained. It seemed his beloved had trouble with mass slaughter just like Irkand hated seeing children in dire straits.

_Somehow I don't think telling her she'll get used to it would be a good idea._ Irkand took a deep breath and ventured into the charnel house that was the capital of Skyrim.

…

"Junseahrol."

The whisper, little more than the fading sound of a dying thunderstorm, awoke Balgruuf. He met the sightless eyes of Athis, who had flung himself across the Dragonborn to protect him from Alduin's Storm Call, and vomited. At the crucial moment, he'd hesitated, and only the Aedra knew how many had died for it.

_Sedinkoorven…_ He groaned and flailed about, trying to recall where he'd last seen Lia, and struck cold, dead flesh. When he turned his gaze in its direction, he saw a hand and part of the forearm: bronze, encrusted with dried blood… and covered in those telltale scarlet tattoos.

His Shout of despair hurled Athis' carcass off him and echoed across the skies. No doubt it was a beacon to any lackey of Alduin's, but at the moment, Balgruuf didn't care.

"Junseahrol." The rumble was louder but more breathless. _"Hi los praag."_

_ Paarthunax,_ the Dragonborn thought despairingly. _Let me die. Let the world die._

"Balgruuf!" yelled an oil-smooth Imperial voice. "Speak to me!"

_No._

"Junseahrol," Paarthunax repeated. _"Zu'u los viir. Kir tinvaak wah zey."_

_ I am dying. Please talk to me._

_ "Niid."_

"Don't tell me no, you Nord bastard." The smooth Imperial voice was closer. "You have a dragon to kill."

A raw laugh that escalated into the Thu'um erupted from Balgruuf's throat. _"Alduin los krongrahkei." Alduin is victorious._

_ "Ni jol hi lahney."_ _Not while you live._

A Redguard face, vaguely familiar, seemingly popped out of nowhere. "Get up," the Imperial voice commanded.

_"Niid."_

"Cicero?"

Balgruuf found himself dragged up by a red-haired Imperial in jester's clothing, of all the fucking things. "Cicero has a dragon!" the man crowed.

"Now is not the time for- _Oh Sithis_." The Redguard's voice went from coldly annoyed to devastated. He reached out to touch Lia's severed limb, hand trembling.

"Listener?" Cicero's voice was uncertain, quavering.

_"Sedinkoorven,"_ Balgruuf whispered, closing his eyes. His pride, his focus on the civil war, had killed her. Had killed everyone but what appeared to be the Dark Brotherhood.

"Shit." Delvin Mallory's voice was rough. "Telling the boy will be hard."

"Yet I must find the words." The Redguard's voice was heartbroken.

"… Oh Sithis," murmured a sweetly dark woman's voice. "Your niece, Irkand?"

"…Yes."

Balgruuf found himself with an iron-hard grip around his neck. His eyes popped open to face the slanted brown gaze of a man who wasn't only acquainted with death, but _was_ Death Incarnate. "My name is Irkand Aurelius. I am the uncle of Aurelia. If you fail to avenge her, Nord, my last act on this earth will be to _end_ you, body and soul. Are we clear?"

"Junseahrol? _Dii tiid los lov_."

"You are going to talk to the dragon. Then you will go to the Greybeards and tell them of his death. Then you will find a way to kill Alduin." Irkand's smooth voice was cold, clipped. "If you do that, you _might_ be worthy of joining her in Heaven's Reach Temple."

"He's right." Farkas, bloodied and battered, emerged from the Winking Skeever with Elisif in tow. The Jarl of Solitude gasped and headed straight for the inn sign, under which emerged a pair of bare wiry legs.

"Tullius!"

"Still… here…" muttered the General. "Guess Alduin didn't feel like choking on gristle today."

"You are not gristle!" Elisif brandished the Wabbajack and turned the inn sign into a motley-clad older man with the refined look of a gentleman. He danced a jig and vanished, leaving a pile of cheese wheels behind.

"Cicero is in love," the jester murmured as Tullius staggered to his feet, tough as the gnarled roots of a Colovian oak.

"Balgruuf's alive?" the General asked weakly.

"Yes, he is." Irkand released his grip on Balgruuf's neck and the Dragonborn fell to his knees. "So is the Harbinger. My niece is not."

"Damn." Tullius shook his head dazedly. "I… Shit. Out of magicka-"

Elisif embraced him, golden light surrounding them both and even reaching Balgruuf, who felt some of his bruises and cuts heal. "I learned Heal Others after… Torygg…" The Jarl of Solitude released the smaller Colovian and turned to the others. "Fan out, find survivors. I will _not_ let Alduin destroy my home."

"Lia's dead?" Farkas closed his eyes and sighed. "Guess she's in Sovngarde now. Hope she doesn't kick Tsun in the balls. That would be kind of awkward."

_"The Moon-and-Star, the Dawnbringer and the Lord of the Wolves will be with you in Sovngarde."_ Idgrod's words came to haunt him. He'd always assumed that somehow they'd all survive this, to go bodily to Sovngarde and face Alduin there… But he was wrong.

"She is," he rasped. When everyone's eyes turned to him, he gestured helplessly. "Idgrod said… the final battle will be in Sovngarde. Sedinkoorven, the South Summer Wind, will be there."

"Junseahrol…" Paarthunax's voice was weaker.

_"Zu'u meyz,"_ he assured the ancient dragon, approaching his broken white body.

"Paarthunax." Ulfric's rich baritone was thick with grief; the Jarl of Windhelm approached also, face covered in blood, his left eye a bloodied ruin.

"Nahdofelniir," Paarthunax responded. _"Dreh ni noras hinmaar."_

_Do not blame yourself._ Balgruuf also felt that the Grand Master of the Greybeards and the mentor of Tayfunvahzah was speaking to him as Dragonborn.

Ulfric's remaining green eye met Balgruuf's blue ones. "I have brought this about. I am… not worthy of being High King. But you are."

"I failed-"

"You love this land and its people. I… see only Nords, those who worship Talos… and those who do not." The Tongue sighed. "But you should speak to Paarthunax."

_"Geblaan nii."_ Paarthunax's voice was weak, pleading. _"Kun dii mulaag ahrk nuft nii wah viik Alduin."_

"What is he saying?" Elisif asked Tullius.

"Finish it. Take my strength and use it to defeat Alduin." Ulfric's voice was raw with pain.

"Geh," Paarthunax confirmed. "I am… glad to die for Keizaal."

_"Niid,"_ Balgruuf pleaded.

_"Kir."_

A true Nord did not refuse a request for mercy. He groped about for a weapon, only to be handed an ebony wazikashi by Irkand, whose eyes were cold with smothered pain. "Make it quick," he advised softly. "Paarthunax deserves no less."

"One last… gift…" Paarthunax lifted his head to regard Balgruuf with a rheumy citrine eye before turning to a clear spot and Shouting, _"Krent Kopraan Zifahl!"_

_ Broken body mend. _A Shout for healing, not for war. Peace and calm, the golden light of Akatosh Himself, haunted those words. He wished Lia could have lived to hear them.

"Lia would have liked you," he told the dragon as he sagged, the last of his energy gone. "She fought to protect Tayfunvahzah, you know."

"I know." Paarthunax sighed. "Let Nahdofelniir take her place with the Bruniikke. He will not be happy in High Hrothgar."

"I will gladly do so," Ulfric vowed fervently. "Sky without, Voice within."

_"Lok vothni, Lovaas tuum."_

Balgruuf brought the dagger down, weeping as Paarthunax cried out once and died. Then his soul was in agony as he absorbed the great creature's soul.

Then he fell to his knees and screamed so loudly Skyrim itself rang with his grief and rage.

…

Night fell. Huddled within still-standing walls, the two out of five who survived Alduin's rage muttered in fear and hope of the Dragonborn who walked amongst them, dispensing life with his Voice yet rang the skies of Skyrim with his mourning. None were outside as all feared another dragon attack.

Golden eyes gleamed as lips peeled back in amusement, revealing fangs. Let the kine hide. Enough of their number remained outside, broken and bleeding beneath corpses, that the denizens of Castle Volkihar could feast without interruption.

The true vampires moved amongst the dead and dying, harvesting blood and souls. The Tyranny of the Sun would come to an end soon, allowing the true apex predators to take their place as rightful rulers of the world.

One of them, a wiry Bosmer held in low regard by the Volkihar Court, came across a specimen he knew Lord Harkon himself would appreciate. He called for the great Lord, the progenitor of the clan, and the ancient Nord, resplendent in his mighty winged form, drifted over to examine it. Then the pure-blood laughed and laughed before picking it up by one hand, biting into its neck.

None living accompanied the Volkihar back to the Castle… yet they were one more in number.


End file.
